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XH0050N REDMAN 

UNDER THE SPELL OF THE FULL MOON 



Frontispiece 



ISLES IN SUMMER SEAS 

(BEAUTIFUL BERMUDA) 

BY 

J. LAW REDMAN 




WITH lOO ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

J. HODSON REDMAN 



G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



I- /i>3! 
■ 1^31 



Copyright, 1913, by 
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 



Isles in Summer Seas 
{Beautiful Bermuda) 



/ 3-/0 2^3 



©CI.A347165 



TO 

ERNEST H. STEVENS 

AND 

THE MEMORY OF MANY PLEASANT 

HOURS IN BERMUDA 



INTRODUCTION 

You pass through the Gulf Stream and present- 
ly come to a land imfamiliar to your eyes, but so 
rich in hospitality of its people, charm of alluring 
skies and glory of semi-tropic vegetation, that its 
strangeness vanishes. Once there you seem to 
have lived there always. 

This is Bermuda — the isles of Somers. Among 
them we, like other folk before us, tarried for a 
space. Some things we saw as others have done; 
but we followed no beaten track. Therefore, if 
in our ramble we appear to have departed from 
the conventional, the fault, if fault there be, lies 
with circumstance. 



Isles in Summer Seas 




CHAPTER I 

^N the southern rim of the far horizon, 
out of a faint shimmering mist, 
loomed St. David's Head, Bermuda. 
Under an October sky of resplen- 
dent blue, the bold promontory- 
took definite shape and coloring. A sea, 
shading from deep indigo to lighter hues, ere 
it shone to leeward in dancing green, slipped 
lazily astern, as the ship's bows clove the brine_, 
fathoms below. We were afloat on a scarcely 
ruffled expanse of placid water. The long Atlan- 
tic roll heaved 
luider us with 
hardly a per- 
ceptible com- 




Isles in Summer Seas 



motion. Scores of lithe-bodied flying fish, dis- 
turbed from amphibious pleasures by the swelling 
progress of oiir way, flitted in scared haste to port 
and starboard. Now and then beautifiil sea ane- 
monae, visible in the throbbing green beneath, folded 
fikny tentacles and sank in hurried affright. Above 
us, an azure sky, flecked with fleecy, floating clouds, 
looked down; while overhead the seagulls winged 
to dizzy heights in a steady, semi-tropic breeze. 

Our progress was as near a glide as could be 
imagined. It was difficult to conceive that we had 
carried a wUd nor 'caster out of New York to the 
southern edge of the Gulf Stream. So quickly and 
easily were we possessed by the charm and splen- 
dor of this transition into enchanted atmosphere; 
the glowing wonders of our luminous wake and the 
glimpse of land over our bows, that the groaning 
travail of the early night seemed but the figment 
of a hardly remembered dream. 

It was our first sight of those "remote isles " off 



Beautiful Bermuda 



whose rugged eastern coast Juan de Bermudez, in 
the year 15 15, anchored his weather-worn ship, 
La Garza. Now, as then, its bays, its bold projec- 
tions, its scarred and salt -encrusted rocks oppose 
grimly the turbulence of the storm-swept Atlantic, 
or lie asleep under a canopy of blue in the long pa- 
renthesis of calm. Beyond St. David's Head, 
white and solitary in a clump of dark green foliage, 
rose St. David's lighthouse — lone warder of all 
that rough coast and of all the reaches of sunken 
coral and surf-girdled islets east and north. Bit 
by bit we picked out cape and promontory. Soon 
houses, snowy white and low, lay against the green 
hill slopes. Cedar trees and an occasional palm, 
gnarled and twisted, leaned landward up the hills 
as if in terror of the surf that rushed and foamed 
in the caverns, hugging the shores at their very 
feet. 

It was a sight to kindle the eye, to observe 
flashes of foam among the huddled heaps of rocks 



Isles in Summer Seas 



against the land, worn into fantastic shapes by- 
years of erosion. 

At Mills' Breaker Ledge we picked up the pilot 
and, in a many-colored, quickly changing kaleido- 
scopic sea, steamed to Five Fathom Hole. It was 
a short run to Sea Venture Flats and there it was 
we obtained a near view of Somers' Point and 
Gates' Bay. The ruins of the old fort on the point 
stood out sharply, naked and storm-riddled. It 
was at this place, in the year 1609, on a midsimi- 
mer day — July 28, to be exact — that Sir George 
Somers, in the Sea Venture, lodged his sinking 
ship between two shoals at the spot marked on the 
chart as Sea Venture Flats. He landed his whole 
company of one hundred and forty men and 
women on the cape that bears his name. The bay, 
where such dire perils beset the landing, is named 
for Sir Thomas Gates, one of the shipwrecked 
company. He was on his way to act as Deputy 
Governor of Virginia. 



Beautiful Bermuda 



In a difficult 
channel, we 
skirted St. 
Catherine 's 
Point on the 
outer edge of 
the Narrows. 
The ruins of a 
more modem 
fort at this 
place held our 
interest until 
we came 
abreast of the 
rugged pro- 
jections of Tobacco Rocks and Tiger's Head. 
These huge storm-riven boiilders seemed as 
if flung, by some Titanic force, from the main 
ledges years ago as protection to Tobacco Bay. 
From the shore line, up the long green hill, the land 




Isles in Summer Seas 



sloped to the Signal Station. To the left, on the 
lower level, we caught a glimpse of white-roofed 
houses that marked the town of St. Georges, while 
in between lay the snow-white water sheds of the 
Naval Tanks. Presently there came a view of 
Martello Tower, on the outer cape near Whale- 
bone Bay. This tower marks the southeastern 
end of St. Georges Island. In the near distance 
loomed Ireland Island, the extremity of the hook 
partially encompassing Great Sound. Off to port 
lay Crawl Flats, along our course. The channel 
widened at Bailey's Bay and, a little later, we 
raised Stag Rock on Hamilton, or the Main Is- 
land. We steamed close to Spanish Point and 
Clarence Hill, and over Grassy Bay we hove 

anchor with- 
in hailing dis- 
tance of the 
floating dock 
and dock- 




Beautiful Bermuda 



yard inside Ireland Point. At least two of 
us in the big tourist crowd under the dock 
shed in Hamilton had definite . ideas as to 
destination. We were for St. Georges! The Art- 
ist had thought out our itinerary while we were 
still aboard the ship. I regall that in a particu- 
larly nasty bit of sea he crawled the narrow bridge 
from poop to main deck, where I lay racked with 
nausea, and declared, in tones that would admit 
of no dissent : 

"We don't stop this side of St. Georges!" 
All the morning I had been conquering a desire 
to go forward and entreat the Captain to "stay" his 
ship, if only for a moment, to give me a little res- 
pite. The Artist's news made me groan dismally. 
I had no fight left in me, while he — he was abso- 
lutely immune from sea-sickness. In Hamilton 
it was entirely different. I was on land, a thor- 
oughly well man and disposed to argue. Added 
to all this I was ravenously hungry. Under the 



8 Isles in Summer Seas 

dock shed among the hurrying tourists, black 
porters and white-suited natives, we looked over 
the crowd curiously and argued the point conclu- 
sively. There was a good deal of bustle and con- 
fusion among the tourists. The natives, white 
and black, seemed totally unconcerned and moved 
around easily and carelessly, giving us the impres- 
sion that it was they and not the big ship-load of 
people from the United States who were out for a 
holiday. Along with the crowd we hurried out 
into the white street. My companion was heavily 
laden with a suitcase and certain paraphernalia 
connected with his art. I was taking care of the 
excess baggage. Somewhere along in the crowd 
we became separated. It seemed an interminable 
while before the Artist found me, for I considered 
it safest to remain where I was, as I felt sure he 
would return. He was hot and rude — items I 
carefully overlooked when he informed me that 
he had secured a conveyance for St. Georges. 



Beautiful Bermuda 



"Better get a bite to eat, hadn't we?" 
"Nonsense!" he blustered, "You'll be better 
ojffi by fasting until your land legs come back to 
you. " 

He had eaten heartily aboard ship. I had not. 
Protesting vehemently, I followed him up Queen 
Street. We had gone only about halfway, when 
a burly negro met us and grabbed our baggage, 
which he slammed into a vehicle backed against 
the curb, bidding us climb into the conveyance 
also. It was the stage for St. Georges. Before I 
could get my bearings the driver cracked his whip, 
and we were off. In this manner we made two, in 
the company of twelve persons, in addition to the 
black with the whip. This fellow sat in the midst of 
a miscellaneous heap of luggage. The other passen- 
gers in the 
stage were 
natives, 
about even- 




10 Isles in Summer Seas 

ly divided as to color. Most of them appeared 
friendly, openly looking us over without em- 
barrassment. 

Over the route we took, the distance to St. 
Georges was a long twelve miles. The way led 
out along a winding road, bordered by high walls, 
white as chalk. These walls were fringed with 
vivid masses of flowering vines and brilliant Eng- 
lish heath. In the low places oleanders in full 
bloom grew to a height of twenty feet. Palm 
trees, some towering above the aged cedars on the 
near hills, others wind-struck and scrubby, over- 
looked the ribbon of white roadway. Now and 
then we passed a banana plantation or a potato 
patch. There were several deep cuts through the 
coral rocks, and in these the road narrowed to a 
single track. Because of the many deep sea inden- 
tations, the course of our route, which lay along 
the west shore, was crooked and winding. 




CHAPTER II 

OR descriptive detail of 
points of interest we 
drew upon all sources of 
information, but espe- 
cially did we refer to 
the driver. This fellow's knowledge was like 
a spring bubbling over in effervescing abun- 
dance. He was a burly black, coarse of 
feature and supremely happy in the con- 
sciousness of carrying a double load. The one he 
had accimiulated at certain well known ports of 
call in Hamilton caused him to grin perpetually 
and expressively in the early stages of the trip 
northward. The luggage of his fares, piled high 
on either side of him, interfered a little with his 



II 



12 Isles in Summer Seas 

efforts at conversation; but despite these obstacles 
he singled out the Artist as most likely to prove 
an interested listener and from time to time 
breathed back into the stage much history of the 
Islands and a strong odor of rum. 

He was a seductively happy black man, and he 
laughed loudly and hoarsely at everything and 
nothing, seeming particularly to find an especial 
pleasure in flogging the near horse. It was appar- 
ently a habit with him and the animal itself 
accepted his attentions with a spirit that found 
frequent expression in oft repeated efforts to kick 
in the dashboard. The natives knew the driver 
better than we did, of course. Several of them in 
the stage were on terms of intimacy with him and 
these called him "Bill". One or more of his own 
color even ventured to help out lapses of memory 
and frequent bibulous incoherency of description 
by supplying the necessary details. 

At the Flats we rumbled over the bridge that 



Beautiful Bermuda 



13 



spanned the inlet to Harrington Sound. Here the 
driver slowed down his team. It was then that 
Bill, assisted by two natives, pointed out Gallows 
Island off the Cape. We looked 
out from the stage to a low, flat 
coral island fringed about with 
foam, and saw a rude projection 
which a native said was all that 
was left of the gibbet. The story- 
connected with the origin of the 
islet's name is, in effect, that 
a m.urderous slave was hanged 
there; his skull being left to 
bleach on the gallows for many 
years. The date of this occurrence is ob- 
scure, though Bill fixed it as June 8, 1708. He 
stuck to it in spite of the protestations of an eld- 
erly ''Uncle", in the back of the stage, who stout- 
ly maintained that it was June ninth of that year. 
We were amused at the earnestness of the dispute; 




14 Isles in Summer Seas 

in fact we took it as a compliment that so much 
of effort shotild be expended in setting us right on 
so small a matter as this date. Argument on the 
question lasted until we reached the Causeway, 
the link between the Main and St. Georges Island. 
An old woman in the seat just behind the driver 
seemed vastly interested in the dispute, though 
taking no part in it. Several times she seemed on 
the point of projecting her individuality to the 
fore, but for some unaccoimtable reason held back. 
She looked crossly at the old "Uncle", however, 
and I distinctly saw her lips form the word "Liar". 
But she made no sound. A kinky haired school- 
girl got in at this place and, there being no vacant 
seats, the disputatious gentleman calmly took the 
maid on his loiees. 

We were mounting a steep grade in the Cave 
Region when the Artist nudged me to look. Close 
by the road, in a little hollow, lay a stone house 
with this legend sprawling over its side: 



Beautiful Bermuda 



15 



"FRESH PORK ON FRIDAY." 
My stomach ached because of a long, forced 
fast — and I considered it downright cruel of him 
to call attention to food so far in the future. We 
reached the Swing Bridge just as the sun was sink- 
ing. This sunset claims indulgence for a tribute. 
The waning orb lay like a golden ball set on the dark 
rim of the sea. Out beyond the fringe of naked 
rocks over Miner's Head, the ocean was wide, 
placid and impressive. There was a broad ex- 
panse of soft shimmering rose color around the 
far western edge; in the near distance all was 
silver. A big splendor lay in the flashes of spray 
when the waves hit the rock projections off the 
point, or boiled in foam over the simken reefs in 
the tideway. 

From the Swing Bridge the road twisted and 
tiimed with the shore line of 
Mullet Bay. We climbed gen- 
tle grades and before it was 




1 6 Isles in Summer Seas 

really dark, entered the old town, "the cradle of 
Bermuda's history". Here was a maze of nar- 
row streets and crooked alleys, bordered by high 
walled gardens. Oleanders and pakns peeped at 
us from dark enclosiures, while here and there 
along the route barefoot yellow and black children 
looked down from quaint, high-stooped houses, 
or shouted vociferous welcomes to Bih and the 
stage. The driver lashed the near horse into 
greater speed. In a wild rush the stage rattled 
down a steep hill, and a little farther on came to 
an abrupt stop. We proceeded to stretch our 
cramped legs in the Market Square. 

"At last!" said the Artist. 

"Where can we eat — and when?" I asked. I 
was tired and ravenously hungry. 

Seen in the moonlight of that first night, from 
the eminence of Barrack Hill, the town and near 
harbor lay like a bank of snow on the sloping 
hillsides, broken at intervals by patches of somber 



Beautiful Bermuda 



17 




trees. We had strolled to this 
point up through Rum Alley, 
skirting Convict Bay and the 
high Barrack Cliff. A low 
wall edged the road up from 
the town to the height ; on this 
we sat, under the bewitching 
spell of the moon, gazing 
ecstatically at the peaceful scene below. A north 
wind, with a temperature of 70 degrees, stirred in 
the wide-spreading cedars and rustled in the 
oleanders above our heads. Out from the town 
came an occasional bark of a dog — there were no 
other sounds. The place was, indeed, singularly 
attractive beneath the illiiminating light of the 
brilliant moon, riding high in the cloudless arch 
above. Rays streaming from the luminous sky 
cut paths across the phosphorescent waters of the 
town harbor, tinging with mystic silver the foliage 
of cedars on St. David's. It was a scene of real 



1 8 Isles in Summer Seas 

enchantment, and as we looked it was easy to 
imagine oiirselves a century or so back in the past. 
Meanwhile, as we sat there, a native, soft of 
tongue, as all the Islanders are, told the story of 
the landing, over against the Naval Tanks, of 
Captain Ord and his crew in 1775, on the secret 
night expedition which ended in the depletion of 
the powder magazine. We learned also of certain 
other bloody doings when pirates from the Span- 
ish Main made unwelcome visits to the town and 
harbor in the wild days two centuries or more 
agone. 

That night we dreamed of fierce, grizzled ruf- 
fians, clambering up over bare rocks; the savage 
onfall and the force of arms. 





CHAPTER III 

'E were early astir. 

Before dawn K , 

the landlord of the 
Inn — "our Inn" as 
we came to know it — routed 
us out of bed. He was a so- 
- ciable chap and insisted upon 
taking us for a dip in the harbor before 
breakfast. In Water Street, a few doors above 
the post office, we passed the house in which 
the Duke of Clarence, afterward King William IV, 
lived as an officer of the Royal Navy. 
The "Sailor King" as a mark of ^^- 

favor presented his hosts with a ~^ ' ^ -^ 

i 






^^- - 




19 




20 Isles in Summer Seas 

"Imocker " suitably inscribed and this much 
worn brass doorpiece is still attached to the 
entrance, opening ofiE the high stooped por- 
tico. K gave us a great deal of in- 
formation concerning the houses along the 
way, but the former abode of the 
Royal Duke had a sort of- fascina- 
tion for the Artist; he wanted to lin- 
ger near it. There was not light 

enough to sketch, however, and besides K 

was anxious to get his bath. Moreover, our 
right to pause was disputed by a surly canine 
that insisted upon crowding close behind, snap- 
ping and snarling unpleasantly near our heels. 

That dip into the harbor! Shall we ever forget 
it? The air was balmy as June. Ruffled by the 
morning breeze, the water, into which we plunged, 
was deliciously cool and possessed of a certain 
buoyant quality that made it no effort to keep 
afloat. It was quite deep in the channel, too, and 



Beautiful Bermuda 



21 



yet so crystal clear we coiild look to the very bot- 
tom and see the curiously blended coloring of 
the coral formation. 
At length we saw the sun rise over Castle 




Island away in the East, and we stroUed back 
into Market Square. The town folk were 
stirring. A dozen or more darkies exchanging 
bits of gossip were lolling about the taU flag 



22 



Isles in Summer Seas 



staff in the center of the Square. This spot 
we found was the rendezvous of all the 
idlers in the town. The circular stone coping 
at its base formed a convenient seat, whereon 
the weary could rest and smoke at ease. It 
was also a spot favored of the score or more 
canines that met and played and fought, at inter- 
vals, in unrestrained freedom. This place and 
the dock and the big roofed shed over against the 
north end of the water front were the accustomed 
lounging places of the colored folk of both sexes 
and all ages. It was a happy, careless, barefooted, 
coatless crowd among which we moved that morn- 
ing. Individuals shouted greetings, or laughed 
boisterously over a suddenly recalled incident or 
happening of the previous 
night. There was the inti- 
macy of life-long association 
in the easy familiarity of 
these exchanges. It was 




Beautiful Bermuda 



23 



shared by the dogs that roamed, unkicked, 
in the Square. The water side of the quay 
was studded over with a dozen or more dis- 
mantled smooth-bore cannon. Several, req- 




uisitioned to peaceful uses as mooring posts, 
were sunk end-up in the masonry. To one 
of these was made fast a craft resembling a steam 
launch, only larger. This was the "Daisy" — a 



-4 



Isles in Summer Seas 



dmimiith-e ferry-boat pl^ng to points on St. 
DaN-id s Island. 

A hundred yards or more out from the quay lay 
a small island covered with 1o\y rod-w'alled build- 




ings. K told lis this was Ordnance Island — 

the GoN-emnient depot from which are issued all 
the stores necessary for gim maintenance used in 
the Island forts. A deep channel raced between it 



Beautiful Bermuda 



25 



and the quay, the only visible means of communi- 
cation being a big clumsy looking, double-ended 
yawl, propelled by a huge sculling oar. We later 
made the acquaintance of the ferryman. Because 
he looked so little the part, the Artist dubbed him 
Charon, and the channel he crossed, the Styx. 
In addition to draping his legs over the dock, all ^ 
he had to do was to ferry over such and sundry 
members of the British Army as happened to have 
business with the Ordnance Corps. 

The Artist sketched him in a number of 
poses, both in action and at rest. He was 
grouping a trio of juvenile blacks at a penny 
each against one of the cannons when I asked 
nonchalantly: 

''Hadn't we better go to breakfast?" 

"What for?" he indignantly demanded. Then 
— "Say, you're a regular glutton! Go to grass — 
I'm busy!" 

I followed K to the Inn. 




26 Isles in Summer Seas 

When next I saw the Artist he had his back to 
a tree in the old Natural Park, the observed of 
two timid children and a tethered calf. He 
seemed in a better mood and was sketching the 
ruined entrance gates at the top of picturesque 
Queen Street. This gateway was built seventy- 
odd years ago — and looked it. I was fresh from 
a visit to the well ordered Public Gardens, the 
gardens of the governors, when St. Georges was 
the capital. I had paid my respects to the mon- 
ument erected to the memory of Sir George 
Somers and had heard the ancient custodian of 
the place tell how the doughty old Admiral in 
sisted upon having his heart buried in that spot. 
It was a pretty garden, with flowering shrubs and 
rare trees, including a "monkey's puzzle", date 
pahns more than one hundred years old and 
strange, curious specimens of the screw pine. I 
had thought that for once I had stolen a march 
on the Artist; but no — I hadn't. Here I found 



Beautiful Bermuda 



27 



him in the most enchanting of places — a wild, dis- 
ordered, rambling pleasance, with tempting 
green vistas, in a forest of cedars. The garden 
walls were going to ruin, while prickly snake cac- 
tus and the sharp pointed Spanish bayonet fringed 
the grassy swards in the open spaces. Over all, 
neglect and the roaming goats made a mockery 
of order. I walked over it for more than an hour. 

"What d'ye think of this?" 
demanded the Artist, when I 
joined him. He held up a 
sketch of an old man backed 
up near a wall, "That's 
Uncle Ben Tucker, on the job 
at eighty!" 

"Pooh! that's nothing," I 
said. "There's a bunch of 
them down on the dock just 
as picturesque. They're on 
the same kind of a job, too. 




28 



Isles in Summer Seas 



Come, let's move on. Hark! 
what's that?" 

The measured tramp of 
feet sounded on the strip of 
hard roadway. We looked 
back into the park toward 
the North Shore. Our first 
sight of soldiers. On they 
came, two " Tommies ", 
heavily booted Bedfordshire 
lads, swagger-sticks and all. 
They were in rough khaki 
and looked anjrthing but gay. 

"Is it far to the shore? " asked the Artist, mak- 
ing a bungle of a military salute. Both halted. 

"No," said one wearing a corporal's stripes, 
"just hover the 'ill yon." 

" 'Tis a fine country you have!" I ventured. 

He of the stripes laughed harshly and rudely. 
"You wouldn't think so if y' 'ad been 'ere two 




Beautiful Bermuda 



29 



bally long years, and knew you'd another two a- 
comin'! Would 'e, Bill? " 

"It's bloomin' 'ard luck, that's wot!" said Bill, 
" 'Taint nothink like Malta nor Hindia!" 

All this was very disappointing to us. We 
wandered away, the Artist moralizing at great 
length on the lack of sentiment so frequently 
foimd in surroimdings calculated to foster appre- 
ciation of the beautiful in nature. He had com- 
pleted his ninth sketch. In his own vernacular 
he was feeling " all to the merry — and then some." 

By that time we were on the highway inland 
out beyond Convict Bay. To reach this place 
we had passed close by the Town Hall. Along 
the way lurchins, yellow and black, had accosted 
us with the formula: "Gimme a 
penny. Mister!" Or if we looked 
"easy" to them: "Make it thru- 
pence, sir!" This propensity to 
beg is quite common, we found, 





30 Isles in Slimmer Seas 

among the negro population, and is without 
doubt an acquired habit, for wliich the tour- 
ist is wholly to blaine. In Rtmi Alley we 
^ "^ chanced unexpectedly on another type. In 
^^^ front of the '' Magpie" a very ancient negro 
"auntie", so WTinkled and weather worn as to 
claim the S3mipath3' of the Artist, halted us. 

''Is yo' gwine fm*?" she questioned. We 
reckoned this but an excuse for ftuther parley- and 
we reasoned correctly. It was a holdup, but we 
submitted, with the best grace possible. 

We asked the way to a certain well of which 
K had told us. 

"You all mean the 'Love Well', I reckon," she 
said looking directl}^ at me. 

The Artist assented. She gave us the needed 
directions and seemed about to add some infor- 
mation; but she didn't. In vain we crossed her 
palm with the King's silver. She only shook 
her head, muttering mournfully: ''The Love 



Beautiful Bermuda . 31 

Well! The Love Well! I knows it— I knows it ! " 
These observations were emphasized by jerky 
stabs with her forefinger. All this byplay 
whetted our interest in the spot. 

"This must be the place," said the Artist, 
peering into an opening off the road a mile or so 
out of the town. A little handftil of goat tied to 
the spikey end of a snake cactus emitted a dismal 
bleat as we entered the narrow path into a small 
clearing. Over at one side we saw a slight de- 
pression in the earth, at the bottom of which a 
fair sized irregular hole, looked up to the sky. . 

It was the enchanted well ! The spot of mys- 
tery — the Mecca for bachelors ! Tradition has it 
that the water in this circiilar hole is a sort of love 
philter, especially efficacious in cases of con- 
firmed celibacy. Its power is such that, after a 
sip of even a thimbleful, the least amorous of man- 
kind is moved instantly to begin the search for 
a mate. We know this to be so; for we heard 




32 



Isles in Summer Seas 




the guide of a personally conducted tourist party 
tell all about it to the giggling accompaniment of 
feminine "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" and much show of 
skepticism on the part of the sterner sex, there 
present. The Guide wound up his recital in this 
fashion: 

"Should man tliis water dare to drink, 

Tho' forty years a bachelor he, 
'Twll warm his heart and make him think! 
He'll plod the land, he'll sail the sea 
With Cupid pilot all his life, 
Until he finds himself a wife!" 

The brink of the well was much worn 

aroimd the edges as with the feet of 

many male toiuists anxious to nm 

double. We saw a very pretty 

gii'l, in the little knot of laughing damsels, 

fish out a gill of the fluid from the depths 

and sip a part of it, the remainder she 

forced upon a slim young fellow 

If 



Beautiful Bermuda . 33 

she had in tow. He vainly exhibited all the 
symptcans of a desire to evade a duty, but 
finally drank the stuff with a wry face. 

Just to see what caused the grimace, the 
Artist, in the silence following the departure 
of the tourist crowd, drank a pint of the 
mess. He said it was very brackish. I took his 
word for it. 

"D'ye know," said the Artist, as we backed into 
the shade of a poinciana whose yellow and crim- 
son flowers we had noted from the roadway, 
"this is a wonderful place? Here the breeze 

blows always. There is no dew and K tells 

me there are no cold rains ever. All the water we 
drink comes from the clouds. The people care- 
fully save it up against a dry time. These folks 
are never in a hurry. Ever see anybody run here 
except the tourists? You never did. Speaking 
of the tourists — did you notice that crowd at the 
well? A bunch of 'em seemed bored to death. 



34 Isles in Summer Seas 

You saw the old chap with the bald head and the 
half-burned cigar? Well, he's an old friend of 
mine. That fellow was on the ship coming 
down and he made my gorge rise by trying 
to shoo away a fish hawk resting on the fore- 
mast head." 

I laughed. "Don't be funny," growled the 
Artist, "you didn't see it — not you. No; you 
were just feeling nicely seasick about that time, 
if I remember rightly." 

I was working up a cultivated dislike for the 
Artist. There were a few distasteful things he 
couldn't seem to forget; my indisposition aboard 
ship being one of them. I could have quarreled 
with him on many scores. We were lying on the 
grass taking in the view of Fort Catherine, on the 
slope in the distance, and the Naval Tanks 
nearer by. There came to us the murmur of 
childish voices from beyond a thicket of oleanders 
at our backs. 



Beautiful Bermuda 



35 



"Listen!" admonished the Artist. Then we 
heard: 

"Now Gwen and Maudie! I'll run a bit. See 
if you can catch me! " 

There was a sudden rush of feet and a ten-year- 
old girl darted out through the oleanders, fol- 
lowed by two smaller children. They were all 
a-flutter with excitement, but the minute they 
saw us excitement gave place to abashed diffi- 
dence. They drew together as if in fear, but 



there was no effort to run away. We spoke 



reassmingly to them and, as was his invariable 
custom, the Artist got out his sketch pad. He 
was all business and coaxed them to pose for him. 
In a little while their timidity was gone. The 
smallest of the three was Maudie. The flufiEy 
haired one was Gwendolin and the tall maid was 
Hope. Maudie immediately made a hit with us. 
She was shy, but in a remarkably happy frame of 
mind. "See," she said holding her pinafore in 








36 



Isles in Summer Seas 



one hand and smoothing down the front of her 
dress proudly: "I've gotten a new frock!" 

We parted with more of King George's sil- 
''f ver. Out of a breathlessl}'- still 

clump of neglected cedars and a 
hedge of prickly cactus, brist- 
ling with thorns, we crawled 
into the road at Somers' Point. 
The place was historic. The 
old fort — the first fortification on 
the Islands — la}' in behind a small, 
nide stone house, which it protected 
from the rough winds that drove in 
from the North. An old white haired negro sat 
in the door place and gravely saluted as we 
strolled up. There was a fringe of small cedar 
west of the house, and a patch of thick grass 
lay between. Tied to one of the cedars, a goat 
nibbled contentedly at a Spanish bayonet and 
snake cactus. It was a dull looking brute and 




Beautiful Bermuda 37 

apparently failed to notice us as we passed. I 
craved a drink of water from the lone habitant 
of the cottage. He served me in a much cor- 
roded silver cup. I examined it half curiously. 
He refilled it for the Artist and reluctantly ac- 
cepted a small gratuity. 

Then we fell into conversation. The old man 
was a veritable treastire house stored with infor- 
mation pertaining to the locality. His name, we 
learned, was Tom Jennings. He had lived a 
matter of seventy years near the spot where we 
found him. While he talked, he took us over 
the old fort; pointed out the partially dismantled 
embrasures for the guns and told us what he 
knew of the ruined fort. In the course of his 
narrative he mentioned the silver cup out of 
which we had been served. He said his grand- 
father found it when the foundation of the house 
was laid near a hundred years before. We 
looked over the rude battlements of the fort and 



38 7^/^^ in Slimmer Seas 

crawled to the top. It was a sheer drop of fifty 
feet to the rocks below, where the waves curled 
high over the jagged piles in spurts and bursts of 
creamy foam. All out beyond, to the sea's rim, 
the translucent water sparkled in varying hues. 

Jennings led the way to the eastern side and 
showed us the Town Cut channel. This is the 
sea way into St. Georges' Harbor. He told us a 
story — a tradition of the Island — of those rude 
days, nigh three centuries ago, when a band of 
Morgan's men was shot to pieces from the fort as 
an attempt was made to force the narrow passage 
into the Town Cut. From the old fort, our 
guide led the way out to a ledge of rocks forming 
a protection to Gates' Bay. A well worn path 
led to the top of the noble rock. Beyond it lay 
the perilous coral reef. Sea Venture Flats. 

This rock was bare except for a forked stick 
loosely imbedded in a crevice. The prongs 
pointed upward and on one a six-inch bit of wood 



Beautiful Bermuda 



39 



was lashed at a sharp angle. From its outer end 
depended a small bell. We were both curious 
and asked our venerable guide its uses. He ex- 
plained that it was his own invention — a labor- 




saving fishing device. Three feet behind the 
forked stick he had sunk an iron spike into the 
rock. To this he attached his fishing line when in 
use, resting the shore end across the crotched up- 



40 



Isles ill Siiumicr Seas 




right. The business end of the line he cast out 
inio doop \vator. "\Miou in operation and a fish 
was liookod, the agiiatcd line wiggled the stick. 
This action caused iho boll to ring. His dog, a 
wire haired bnilo, had boon iraiiuxi to iho sound 
of Iho signal, and would oomo to him. barking fren- 
r.iodly, ai iho first stroke of the boll. Wo did not 
soo iho oonirivatioo it\ aotion, but wo saw ovory- 
thing else, ovon the dog — later. 

Back at the house I oraxod another drink of 
water and nude a closer inspootion of the cup. 
Thoro Wvis an inscription on the botton\ and some 
hardh' disceniible uiuuorals. 1 looked twice — 
put on nu' glasses and looked again — and, yes! 
I road the dale — i^;oi. My blood was tired at 
onoo. and short, quick negotiations ensued. To 
toll the truth I hated to take the antique relic, 
booause this tottering old Islander could not 
ha\'0 lalo^^^l the value of the article from which 
he p:u-ted. It was all mine, a silver mug, over 



Beautiful Bermuda 



41 



whose battered rim, who knows what eyes had 
looked, what Hps had been? I hugged my treas- 
ure. The Artist, smiling cynically at me, posed 
the old man on his doorstep and sketched him in. 
Sometimes he would look up 
from his work and grin dia- 
bolically at me like a fiend. 
Later on I bought the rusty 
head of a landing pike found, 
so Jennings said, in the cleft 
of a rock in Gates' Bay. 
There was the intimacy of 
association with the landing 
of the Sea Venture crowd in 
this relic. 

Then we left Mr. Jennings. Carrying both my 
treasures, we made for the road back to town, 
narrowly missing disaster in a totally unexpected 
guise. The goat tied to the cedars had tired of a 
feast on cactus and had chewed its restraining 




42 



Isles in Summer Seas 



tether in. twain. It was a silly brute, mistaking 
the Artist and his sketch pad for some ancient 
enemy, no doubt. Anyhow it plunged toward us 
over the short grass, head down and breathing 




sonorously. Jennings yelled a warning, as his 
dog crawled out from a stone pile near the fort. 
Then he set the cur on the goat. For a couple of 
exciting moments we, the Artist and I, did a pret- 
ty lively piece of dodging among the rocks and 



Beautiful Bermuda 



43 



Spanish bayonets. Ultimately the mongrel caught 
the goat. 

From that moment on we had little to say to 
each other. I recollect that half way back to the 
hotel the Artist laughed aloud. It was a mirth- 
less outburst. He was trailing behind me at the 
time. It was not about the goat episode, for we 
had threshed that out earlier. He had explained 
the evident ill-humor of the animal on the ground 
that it might have swallowed a thorn, but neither 
of us were in a mood to go into the matter tech- 
nically. Therefore his mirthless laugh grated on 
me, but I said nothing. When, however, he 
laughed again in Judy's Lane, the same kind 
of a sardonic, irritating laugh, I 
turned on him, and then and 
there, in that quaint old street, de- 
manded to know the cause of his 
ill-timed humor. It was rapidly 
growing dusk. 




44 /^/e^ in Summer Seas 



"Say," he said, "how old is that — er — cup?" 

I told him the date, whereat he laughed sar- 
castically. Threateningly, I menaced him with 
the pike head. He threw up his hands in mock 
horror. 

"For God's sake! Don't do it here, wait until 
we get away from the Islands!" he cried. Then: 
"Mercy! Is that b-1-o-o-d, or only iron rust on 
your shirt?" 

I looked — it was rust! I felt much like the 
man who, thirsting for a new experience, tossed a 
stale egg into an electric fan in motion. 



CHAPTER IV 




=77HAT NIGHT we made 
the acquaintance of a 
man whose identity is 
hidden in this narra- 
tive under the initial 
S . He was a mod- 
est Yorkshire gentle- 
man, hearty and blunt 
in manner and speech. In the period of our 
association with him he was never known to 
refuse an invitation (and he received quite a 
few) to sample Scotch and soda. Interest in him 
to us was centered in the fact that he was a person 
of some authority on Ordnance Island and knew 
a great deal about Castle Harbor. Our intro- 



45 



46 Isles in Summer Seas 

ducers were K and Charon of the Styx. It 

was over a Scotch and soda, in the quaint old 
English looking bar of the Inn, that the Artist 
made arrangements for a trip by sailboat 
over the Bay to the Natural Arches at Tucker's 
Town. 

"Good! Me boys— I'll take you there!" This 
statement was attended by an emphatic slap on 
the Artist's back that jarred the pipe from his 

mouth. S also had a habit of banging his 

empty glass down on the table with a slam that 
started things. There was a good deal of general 
discussion. We followed him out on the dock, 
where under the light shed by an oil lamp atop of 

a tall post S told us something of the dangers 

of the projected trip. I, for one, had supposed it 
was just an ordinary sail. 

"I must have the wind over here," he said, in- 
dicating the East. He said further that the 
route he expected to take was shunned by even 



Beautiful Bermuda 



47 



the most daring of the St. David's Island fish- 
ermen. 

"Here, my lad!" he called across the dock to a 

a. 




member of a group of men on the stringpiece. 
A lanky individual shuffled over to where we 
stood tmder the light. He came out of the dark 



48 Isles in Summer Seas 

tinder the shed and stood, blinking a little in the 
glare. 

"I say, is it, or is it not, a fearsome trip to 
Tucker's Town in a small boat, mind you, across 
Castle 'Arbor?" asked S . 

"Be these gentlemen a-goin' to make it?" 

"Right you are," said S . Then 

to us — "This man is a fisherman from St. 
David's." 

We looked eagerly at the Islander. His next 
utterance might have contained sentence of doom 
if our close attention to his words coimted for 
aught. He said: 

"W-e-1-1, it's like to be an experience for 'em! 
Castle Harbor's always woke up at this season of 
the year. It's apt to be all woke up even when 
the big sea outside is asleep! " 

S nodded his head at us. The darkness 

swallowed up the form of the fisherman. Then 
S remarked: "Wind right — never mind 



Beautiful Bermuda ■ 49 

about the bloomin' water — we start at noon to- 
morrow, eh, lads?" 

We couldn't back out then, of course, so we 
tried hard to give a hearty "aye," in response. 
We watched Charon scull the big yawl over the 
Styx. It was dusk, the moon not having risen and 
the outlines of the boat melted slowly into the 
darkness. A patch of phosphorescence glowed like 
fire in the trail of the oar, but presently we lost sight 
of this also. 

"I'm for bed," said the Artist, knocking the 
ashes out of his pipe. I got up reluctantly. 

" If the wind is wrong we won't go to-morrow — 
is that our understanding?" I asked. 

"Oh! the wind wiU be all right," answered he, 
with easy nonchalance. "If it isn't so by com- 
pass. Captain S will make it so — see!" 

In this manner was S handed a compliment 

and a title. Somewhere about midnight I awoke 
to find the Artist shouting and wildly endeavoring 



50 Isles in Summer Seas 

to clinib the wall of oiir room. He was grabbing 
franticall}'' at a picture frame over the head of the 
bed when I pulled him do\Aii and pinched him 
into wakeftihiess. It was one of his nightmares. 

He explained to K , who broke into the room 

after it was all over, that he had dreamed a 
boat had capsized and he was trjdng to save him- 
self. I had angered Castle Harbor, with its riot 
of waves, on my mind after that, consequently 
my sleep was fitful. 

Near morning I fell into a nap that lasted far 
into the daT\ni, so I missed the chance to join the 

Artist and K in a dip. The Artist seemed 

especially cheerful at breakfast. He chaffed me 
for ha\Tng overslept and suggested that we kill 
the morning by a \-isit to St. Peter's Chm-chyard. 

"We may not get another opportunity," he 
said airily. 

I had the Tucker's To^^Tl trip on m}^ mind and 
did not exactly relish the cold-blooded suggestion 



Beautiful Bermuda 51 

in the remark. I said so, too. But he only 
laughed. 

"Look here!" he said, "brace up, man. If 
you wear a face like that on the trip, you'll be as 

•popular with Captain S as a stray dog in a 

strange neighborhood with a tin can tied to 
its tail." 

Really, there were some things about the Artist 
I did not like at all and I told him so candidly. 
We went up York Street to the wide stone steps 
leading into the ancient churchyard. The gates 
were open and we entered without difficulty. 
No need for us to be told that this was an old 
spot. Tombstones, worn and weather stained, 
lay all about us. On this side and that, brown 
and gray stones peeped out from odd places, with 
scarcely decipherable inscriptions on the flat 
surfaces. Right up to the gray walls of the church 
itself these fragments of granite and marble 
extended. There seemed no order in their 



52 



Isles in Summer Seas 



placement. This tended to accentuate the ap- 
pearance of neglect that pervaded the groimds. 




^•^ 



" 'Neath many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep!" 

So quoted the Artist. He led the way to a cor- 
ner in the enclosure where, clinging to life with 
grim tenacity, a gnarled and twisted cedar looked 
down upon us, its wide and nearly lifeless branches 



Beautiful Bermuda 



53 



overtopping the rude wall. It was an ancient tree, 
massive and rugged. The records of the town 
proved that it was a matter of two hundred and 
fifty years old; yet, aged as it was, it seemed posi- 
tively youthful compared with the bits of masonry 
that peeped out from the lower walls of the church 




itself. Many of these stones, we learned, were 
laid in 1620, when Governor Butler caused to be 
erected the substantial pile that replaced the 



54 



Isles in Summer Seas 



original cedar church, built in 1612 by Governor 
Moore. The walls in their entirety have existed 
in the present shape since 17 13. It is shown in the 
records that for fifty years the edifice was roofed 




V^^Jll(ll 



with palmetto leaves. The thatch gave way to 
endiiring stone; but even stone is now showing 
effects of weather havoc, for St. Peter's is little 
more than a battered antique. I said something of 



Beautiful Bermuda 



55 



this sort while we moved about before the tree. 
The Artist gave me scant attention. He was seek- 
ing a convenient angle from which to make a 
sketch. He seemed annoyed at something, but I 
persisted with my historical reminiscences just 
the same. Presently he turned on me roughly: 

"How in thunder am I going to do anything if 
you keep pestering me in this fashion! " 

I was completely taken aback. "But — " I 
began. 

"Now, don't 'but' me! The stuff you have 
handed out I read back in New York — I'm here 
to sketch. Heavens! don't go and spoil the few 
hours I have left, " he adjured me testily. 

I was vexed and answered him sharply. "You 
drive at me like a bull at a gate!" I retorted, 
turning on my heel to leave him. 

Under the old clock tower my temper cooled. 
In its shadow lay the grave of Midshipman Rich- 
ard Sutherland Dale, U. S. N., closely crowded 




56 Isles in Summer Seas 

by family tombs hoary with age. Midshipman 
Dale died at St. Georges, Feb. 22, 18 15, having 
been woimded in a sea fight between the U. S. 
Frigate President and a squadron of his Britan- 
nic Majesty's ships of war on Jan. fifteenth of 
the same year. There were many other memo- 
rable and quaintly inscribed stones, and among 
them I loitered for an hour or more. Birds with 
gay and somber plumage flitted from bush to tree; 
flowers peeped up from the grass and bits of sun- 
light struggled through the foliage-covered walls. 
Then I went into St. Peter's. The sexton, a 
silent old negro, brought out the massive silver 
communion service, which was given to the parish 
\ f^vl '^ i63^y King William III. Alongside this was 
a christening basin, the gift of Governor Browne 
of Salem, Mass. In a neglected comer I found an 
old, much-rusted, iron candle- 
stick, rudely formed and bat- 
tered. This, the sexton told me, 




Beautiful Bermuda . 57 

was much older than the church itself. Its 
history was, he said, a matter of conjec- 
ture only. The interior arrangements of 
St. Peter's are strictly of the past. The double- 
decked pulpit rises at the center of the North 
wall, while the altar is built at the side, mak- 
ing it necessary for the congregation to face 
right about when the creed is repeated. Between 
the pulpit and the altar are large box pews, with 
seats on two sides; the preacher looking at the 
backs of some of his auditors when he is talking. 
One of these pews is reserved for the Governor, 
who has a legal right to a sitting in each parish 
church. 

On the walls are mural tablets telling the story 
of yellow fever epidemics; extolling the virtues of 
long forgotten men and women. Many of these 
are examples of the work of Bacon and Westma- 
cott. A memorial erected to Governor Popple, 
who died in Bermuda, Nov. 17, 1744, is irrever- 



58 Isles in Summer Seas 

ently known to the Islanders as "Governor Pop- 
ple's certificate of character". It is conspicuously 
placed. Among other things this Governor en- 
deared himself to the ladies of Bermuda by impos- 
ing a tax of one shilling a head on bachelors. I 
asked my guide a great many questions concern- 
ing these tablets and discovered that he was the 
custodian not alone of the plate, but of much 
history as well. 

The Artist joined me among the tombs. He 
was rid of his grouch and was feeling in good 
humor, having completed his fifteenth sketch 
since oiu" landing. He quizzed me as we strolled. 
A party of some twenty or more tired looking 
tourists led by a sharp featured guide was stream- 
ing in at the gate. Long before they were all as- 
sembled, the guide began his description of the 
place; the actual meager historic recital being 
eked out by generous requisitions on his fertile 
brain. He led his company through in some haste. 



Beautiful Bermuda • 59 

Among them we noticed the pretty girl we had 
seen the previous day at the "Love Well". We 
saw, too, that the lanky chap to whom she gave 
the love philter was not among the crowd. She 
was chatting vivaciously with the fellow of the 
bald head and half consumed cigar. He was tell- 
ing her all about Old Trinity on Broadway, N. Y., 
with St. Peter's, Bermuda, showing up very un- 
favorably by comparison. Behind these came a 
bridal couple, she hanging to him, somewhat 
awed, but trustingly, it seemed. He had a camera 
and wanted to use it. 

"Don't, George!" she pleaded. "It's so terri- 
bly gloomy in here. You ought to snap only the 
pleasant things on our honeymoon!" 
"Pshaw! Gracie — what does it matter?" 
As a matter of fact it was quite evident it did 
matter, for George snapped nothing. Even had 
he felt inclined to ignore the pleading of Gracie he 
would have had no time to select a subject. The 



6o 



LnJcoj in Summer Seas 



guide away at the other end of the chiirch>-ard 
was calling: 

*'Now, well take this path down to the Public 







?/ ^ 



Gardens and S. \>.rs' Tomb and the *Monkey 
Puzzle tree*." 
They straggled out at the gate, George with the 



Beautiful Bermuda 



6i 



camera swinging uselessly in his hands, and Gracie 
bringing up the rear. The pretty girl glanced 
back over her shoulder at the Artist, saying to her 




■''^J^e^i*'. 



companion, "Oh! I must see the 'Monkey Puzzle 
tree'." 

When they were gone the Artist laughed. "It 
took that bunch just four minutes to see all there 
is of interest in St. Peter's! Say, did you see 



62 Isles in Summer Seas 

Baldy of the ship with the 'Love Well' damsel? 
What d'ye think happened to the chap who took 
the love dose, eh?" He grinned. 

I said nothing. The Artist pulled out his 
watch: "I've just time for a shave — you need 
one, too." 

He said he knew of a man in York Street, at the 
intersection of Old Maid's Alley, who would shave 
both of us for sixpence. We started for the place, 
but in that rambling handful of town, where 
streets ran without aim or direction, we lost our 
way. We brought up at the rise of a hill and 
looked up into five furlongs of thick-set shade. It 
was an avenue leading over to the barracks of the 
Engineer Corps, lined on either side with closely 
standing cedars. So close were they that the 
branches overhead interlaced, permitting no sun- 
light to fall on the pathway beneath. It was a 
gloomy walk and yet one in which the lover of sol- 
itude and nature might find a restful hour. The 



Beautiful Bermuda 



63 



breeze soughed musically overhead. There was 
the chirping of brown birds in the foliage, but 
nothing else to vex the stillness. This spot, we 




learned afterward, has its associations with the 
past. It was the walk frequented by Tom Moore, 
the sentimental Irish poet, when in 1804 he filled 




64 Isles in Summer Seas 

the post of Registrar of the Court of Vice-Admi- 
ralty. St. Georges was his home; the cedar walk 
his pleasance. It is even now called by some 
folks "The Poet's Ramble". 

We loitered along the neglected pathway. The 
Artist busied himself with a sketch. When he 
looked at his watch again it was near noon. It 
was high noon when we sat down to lunch at the 
Inn. The Artist was a busy man directly. 

"Look here, Thomas, " he said to the mild man- 
nered Senegambian who served us, "it's quick 
service this day. We're bound for a trip to the 
Natural Arch in an hour." 

Thomas was the most deferential person I ever 
saw. 

" It's blowin' some outside, " he said. " I heard 
a man out in the Square say it was rough out be- 
yond 'Three Sister Islands'. He said somethin' 
'bout a dinghy havin' upset there this 
mornin'I" 



Beautiful Bermuda ' 65 

This statement caught me in the act of sipping 
my tea. Some of it spilled over into my lap. The 
Artist noticed it and, to cover up what he after- 
ward described as a case of nerves, he laughed 
blusteringly. 

"Pooh! we don't care how hard the wind blows, 
or how wild and rough the water gets, do we?" 
Here he leaned over and slapped me roughly on 
the back. Somehow or other his mannerisms were 
getting to be as objectionable to me as those of 
Captain S — — . 

When Thomas came back with the dessert he 
continued his recital. He said somebody had 
pulled two half drowned men out of the over- 
turned dinghy, and .... ^ 

A familiar, hearty voice floated up to us from 
the Square. It was Captain S , who was ask- 
ing about us. The Artist bolted his pie. I was 
eating but little. Downstairs in the square Cap- 
tain S shook our hands heartily. We might 



66 Isles in Summer Seas 

almost have been separated a month the way he 
grabbed hold of me. 

"Wind's right, me boys!" Then he qualified 
the statement. "It's right up to a certain pint. 
Mind you, not exactly as I could have wished it — 
a muckle to the southard. But, me lads, I don't 
rule the wind, do I? Now, we're like to go 
through a nasty bit of water this side the Swing 
Bridge, but after that I hopes the blinkin' 'arbor'll 
be fair decent." 

"We might delay the trip imtil to-morrow — or 
even later," I ventiu"ed. 

"You might,me lad ! But it's not like we'll ever 
'ave a bloomin' ladies' day this time o' the year." 

A negro, wearing a most familiar look, and car- 
rying a short whip, loimged across the Square. 
He touched his hat deferentially to me. It was 
Bill of the stage. 

"You gentlemen goin' back to Hamilton 
soon?" he asked airily. 



Beautiful Bermuda 



67 



"We're going for a boat trip to the Natural 
Arch," said the Artist. 

"O, then you ain't goin' 
back to Hamilton soon!" 
said Bill, with an air of 
finality. 

Confound it ! What ailed 
these people anyway? 
Everybody, designedly or 
not, seemed determined to 
sow my mind as thick 
with evil forebodings as 
the harbor with coral. 

There was Captain S , then the fisherman, 

then the waiter and now it was Bill of the stage. 

"How does it look over in Hamilton?" I asked 
him, eagerly. 

" Mighty well," he affirmed. Then he plied his 
whip on a cur that was sniffing at his trouser leg. 
"Git out, you hobo dog! What younosin' 'bout 




■4l 



68 Isles in Summer Seas 

me fur?" Then to me: "Hopes t' see you gen- 
tlemen agin!" He made an unnecessarily fierce 
swipe at the mongrel on his way to the Town 
Hall, near which he had moored his team. 

I declined the Artist's invitation to Scotch and 

soda. Captain S did not. Alone, I watched 

the pair vanish at the sign of "The Bar." 



r 



CHAPTER V 
^ ,^ TT N THE frame of mind I then 




was, it mattered little whether 
Bill hit the cur, or the ciir bit 
Bill. I was restless and 
meandered down toward the dock. On the way 
Bill passed me again as I crossed the Square. He 
had unmoored his rig and was driving as reck- 
lessly down the open road as the physical ca- 
pabilities of his team would permit . Furthermore, 
the noise he made roused half the dogs in the 
immediate neighborhood and these gave instant 
chase. By the time his rig entered Water Street 
he was pursued by a yelping pack of canines 
that were soon lost in a smother of dust in the 
vicinity of the post office. On the dock I walked 



69 




70 Isles in Summer Seas 

over to the "Daisy". The pilot was taking his 
comfort and his "nooning" nicely curled up 
against one of the dismantled guns. He was 
smoking a pipe. A grizzled, wire-haired dog 
crawled out from beneath his knees and allowed 
me to look for a moment at a formidable display 
of irregular teeth. I spoke soothingly to the 
animal and asked the owner its name. 

"Fritz," answered he of the pipe, shortly. 

"Do you operate the boat?" I asked, chirping 
cheerily at Fritz. 

"The boat belongs to me — if that's what you 
mean." 

I thanked him and propounded another 
question. 

"Is the wind high out there in the harbor?" 

He looked me over for several 
minutes. Not as if he were weigh- 
ing the matter, but as though he 
sought the reason for my query. 



Beautiful Bermuda . 71 

Then he said: "It's blowin' as hard here as it 
is out there." 

I lighted a cigarette. "When do you make the 
next trip to St. David's?" 

"Want to go?" he inquired. 

"Not to-day," I said. "There is a party of us 
going by sailboat to the Natural Arch, over at 
Tucker's Town." 

He looked at me from under the peak of his cap. 

"Captain S of Ordnance Island yonder 

is going to take us," I remarked. 

"The sketch fellow — him with the little fool 
stool — is he agoin'?" 

"Yes, he's the Artist." 

There didn't seem to be much to be said after 
that. Presently Fritz got up and looked over 
toward the Inn. Then he growled, giving a back 
view of his throat as he leaped over a prostrate 

gun in the direction of Captain S and the 

Artist. They were coming rapidly. Captain 



72 Isles in Summer Seas 

S kicked savagely at Fritz, and missed. 



Fritz retreated to where we were sitting. 

"Oh, there you are," said the Artist to me. 
He had his sketch pad and the stool the Pilot had 
noted under his arm. Captain S was al- 
ready on the water stairs shouting for Charon. 
Soon the big lumbering boat put out from the 
landing stage across the Styx. There were two 
aboard — the ferryman and another. The latter 
was a military chap, stockily built, with his 
thumbs stuck in his khaki belt. He leaped nim- 
bly to the dock as the boat grazed the steps and 

gave a brisk salute to Captain S . 

"Well, Tim, me man, what's amiss?" 
Tim dropped his hand: "It's like this, sir. I 
went to fix the bloomin' mast in the dinghy yon, 
as was me borders, an' 'anged if the boat wam't 
'arf full o' water. She's a 'ole in 'er bow as big as 
me 'ead where she bimked a coral rock, or I 
don't know nothink!" 



Beautiful Bermuda ■ 73 

I coiild have thrown my arms around Tim for 
the news he brought. It was quite evident that 

Captain S would not. It must be recorded 

here that his vocabulary contained a superfluity 
of picturesque profanity. A part of this he 
loosed upon the hapless Tim, the dock, Charon, 
the Styic and Castle Harbor. From a jovial 
gentleman of an easy hiimor he was metamor- 
phosed into an animal of black passion. Tim was 
busy making military salutes, and among them 
he gave the Captain the heel click. Captain 
S turned to the Artist. 

" 'Tis a blinkin' bit o' 'ard luck, me lads! 
If the boat's as Tim here says, I'll be all 
afternoon makin' her fit. Mind you, I wouldn't 
care myself about a barrel o' water in her, 
with more a-comin' — not me! I'm thinkin' 
of you chaps and the bally work o' bailin'. 
Come now, I'll give her a patch twixt this 
and noon to-morrow and, wind high or wind 



74 



Isles in Summer Seas 



low, to the Natural Arch we go. What say 
you to that?" 

The Artist, who did all the talking and plan- 
ning, made an appropriate reply, winding up with 
another invitation to a Scotch and soda. Cap- 
tain S wavered. He wiped the back of his 

hand across his mouth, looked at Tim, hitched 
his trousers and said: "Aye, aj-e, me lads!" 
Then he said to Tim: "Back you go, me man, 
and make the boat ready for the mendin'." 

Over a second Scotch and soda Captain S 

became more merry. It was siu-prising what a 

pleasing effect this beverage had upon him. It 

made him Yevy demonstrative; one might almost 

say he was rough. Moreover it seemed 

to accentuate a way he had of pimctu- 

ating the telling points in his remarks 

by such muscular exertion as 

is included in slaps and 

thumps on the anatomy of 




Beautiful Bermuda ' 75 

his nearest neighbor, varied occasionally by 
prodigious thwacks on the table. The Artist and 
I were both a little sore in spots when we separated 
from the Captain at the dock. He called back 
over the Styx, using his hands trumpet wise: 

"Not a blinkin' minute later than noon to- 
morrow, me lads!" 

The Artist piped a response — I did not. 

"That's the best natured fellow I ever saw," 
said the Artist, swinging about to me. 

"You are speaking entirely for yourself!" I 
observed laconically. 

"Where did you accumulate that grouch?" 
he asked. 

"Never mind where or how," I said. "Come, 
let us take the 'Daisy' to St. David's." 

"By Jove! the very thing. Say, once in a blue 
moon you do get a glimmering of intelligence. 
It is fimny about you — I have to do all the plan- 
ning and scheming, you just follow along and 



76 Ishs in Summer Seas 

gnmible. Xow. first of all well go up to the 
Post Office. By the tiino wo get back tliat 
Scimdinavian pilot will bo roady to start, 
maybe." 

To make ?v:ro I stepped o\-or and asked the 
Hlot. 

**If she's full we s;iil at 1 p. m., if slie viin't 
fall we sail at 1 p. m, A party of sight -seeiii' 
folks is due to take the trip. If >-oii want a seat 
get aboard early." 

On Water Street, a block from the Square, wo 
came to the Post Office and Custom Hoiise. We 
passed the Police Station on the way. The Post 
Office was an odd looking structure, with tipper 
and lower \'eranda. This b\iilding formerly was 
the Colonial jail, in which the American re\-ohi- 
tionar\- prisoners were confined. It has its his- 
toric feauires. Between the exterior and interior 
walls are blocks of hard lime-stone. These walk 
probably thwarted many a convict bent upon es- 



Beautiful Bermuda yy 

cape. It is interesting as a bit of history that John 
Stephenson was a prisoner here for six months in 
1 80 1, for preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ to 
African blacks and captive negroes, a law hav- 
ing been passed just to fit his so-called crime. 
This, it is said, was the last instance of religious 
persecution in the Colony. These scraps of his- 
tory about the building we picked up from Post- 
master B , a gentleman of cultivated tastes 

and manners. He had full charge of His Maj- 
esty's mails and was a person of responsibility. 
He took us over the old building, making us 
thoroughly at home in his offices. He seemed to 
take a liking to the Artist. Before we left, he had 
secured our promise to be his guests that night 
at a ball up at the big hotel on the hill. 

We had to run back to the boat and were just 
in time, the last of the sight-seeing folks being in 
the act of embarking as we drew up at the string- 
piece. We recognized a few in the company. 



78 



Isles in Summer Seas 



There were our friends in St. Peter's — the "Love 
Well" damsel, Baldy of the ship and Gracie and 
George. George seemed to be in bad. That is 
to say, he had helped Gracie tenderly aboard and, 
stepping back to get a surer 
footing, he quite accidentally 
trod on Fritz. Dog and man 
entered the "Daisy" together, 
Fritz having secured a grip 
on George's trouser leg that 
required the persuasive force 
of the Pilot's boot heel to 
loosen. There was some dis- 
turbance, of course. The 
"Love Well" damsel was heard to titter 
consumedly, as Gracie looked George over 
for possible lacerations. A big brewer from 
Flatbush, U. S. A., said something about dogs 
being a "demed nuisance anj-way". His wife, 
a portly woman of severe mien, who seemed con- 




Beautiful Bermuda 79 

tinually enveloped in a grouch, didn't agree with 
him. Just as it looked like a happy family 
row, we climbed aboard to the cabin roof. 

Passing out north of Ordnance Island, the boat 
entered the Town Cut section of the harbor. We 
secured a water view of Convict Bay, with its 
numerous shore indentations and water logged 
hulks. Red walled, white roofed government 
machine shops and storehouses lined the coves to 
Building's Bay. Here the ship builders labored 
to build a craft big enough to replace the lost 
Sea Venture three centuries ago. Beyond these, 
only much fiu"ther out, lay the King George — 
the steam dredger — ^which the St. Georges folk 
hope some day will cleave a sea way for big ves- 
sels into the harbor. She was busy eating away 
the point of a coral island, her machinery creaking 
and groaning prodigiously in the operation. 

A native crawled to us along the roof of the 
deck-house and told us something of the heart- 



So Isks in Summer Seas 

ache and hope that lay behind the mo^'ement in 
progress? for the Town Cut Channel. It had to 
do with the jealovisies subsisting between the city 
of Hamilton, o\-er on Great Soimd, and St. 
Georges. It seenis this question of the Town Cut 
has been the cause of frequent bickerings in the 
Island Parliament and it is a sore spot in con\-ersa- 
tions between land owners in Pembroke and St. 
Georges. Wlien the Town Cut Channel is com- 
pleted it is confidently expected that there will be 
a newer and bigger St. Georges. The folks don't 
c\-er hope to get back the seat of gownmient, 
but they belie\*e there will be a big di\'x>rsion of 
tourist travel. It means an enlargement of bene- 
fits from this source to S:. Creorges, for toiuists 
will then cv>me to the tow^l direct, instead of 
b\- \\-;\y of Hamilton. He pointed back to the Sig- 
nal Station up on the hill abo\-e the tow^l and 
sliowed us a little lower down the St. George 
Hotel, a big white biulding, with a commanding 



Beautiful Bermuda 8 1 

view of the North Shore and Harbor. This hos- 
telry, he said, was built by the town folk in antici- 
pation that some day the town would awake from 
its slumber and become a thriving burg. All this 
and more we learned on the deck house of the 
"Daisy", but our knowledge was subsequently 
enlarged in later conversations with the Islanders. 
Our friend, the Native, was a type of Islander 
common to St. Georges. Dressed in rumpled 
linen trousers and coat, he wore a white canvas 
hat turned down at the brim. His face was tanned 
to a brick red, but he was reminiscently conversa- 
tional. We knew he was not a St. David's 
Islander, for he talked to us in a very unconven- 
tional strain about the peculiarities of the sturdy 
race who, through isolation, have closely re- 
tained the old 'Mudian traditions of living. 
These folks farm, fish, pilot vessels, and comb 
the beaches in the wake of the storms, accord- 
ing to the ways of their ancestors. He referred 



82 Isles in Summer Seas 

to these Islanders as "Mohawks", declaring 
truculently that "they cawn't abide the tourist, 
you know!" 

The "Daisy" shifted her coiirse. While she 
nosed her way through a narrow passage be- 
tween Smith's Island and St. David's, I got a 
shock which nearly caused me to lose my grip on 
the cabin roof. The Native had finished a bit of 
reminiscence and the Artist was questioning him. 
The thing he asked was imimportant, but its 
startling feature was the fact that he used the 
broad "a" and a rising inflection. He had 
flatted the "a" all his life and it was ludicrous to 
hear him drawl out "cawn't" and "shawn't" as 
he did. I recovered my equipoise in the limpid 
water beyond the passage. The shore on either 
side of the bay was indented by tiny coves. 
One of these was called Dolly's Bay. On the 
sand is the remnant of a Civil War torpedo raft, 
one of those built in New York to be used in as- 



Beautiful Bermuda 83 

saults on Charleston. This broke away from the 
tow of the steamer Ericsson in a gale off Hat- 
teras in 1862 and was never recovered. For ten 
years the curious old derelict drifted, a dangerous 
waif, until the currents carried it down to Ber- 
muda. It was built of heavy pine timbers, at one 
end of which projected two arms, each intended 
to hold a torpedo. The other end, or tail, was 
constructed to fit the bows of a Monitor, which 
was supposed to push the craft against the sub- 
marine barricades of Charleston Harbor, explod- 
ing the torpedoes by contact with the obstruction. 
The relic, our friend, the Native, pointed out to 
us, was simply a mass of rusty spikes and soft 
crustacea-covered timbers. 

The "Daisy" made a stop at a little pier jut- 
ting out into the bay. This pier was of stone con- 
struction and from it a long, irregiilar flight of 
steps led up the hill to a rambling old house, in a 
nest of cedars. Two people got off, one of whom 



84 Isles in Summer Seas 

was the Native. He waved us an adieu from the 
landing stage. The Artist was sorry to part with 
him, for he had been most entertaining. The run 
out to the last ferry landing was short. Out in 
the open before we made the pier we caught a 
slant of wind from the south that caused the little 
craft to heel a trifle to leeward and I heaved a long 
breath of relief at the thought that we were not 
then at the mercy of Captain S and the din- 
ghy. We were among the last to set foot on the 
dock, simply because the Artist objected to get- 
ting mixed up with the tourist mob. George and 
Gracie were lingering — that is, George was. She 
had him by the coat sleeve and was pleading. In 
spite of these impediments to action, George made 
several savage but futile efforts to plant a vindic- 
tive kick on Fritz's anatomy. He had an inse- 
curely pinned rent in his trouser leg that seemed 
to amuse the pilot, who leaned against the deck 
house, taking no umbrage at George's efforts to 



Beautiful Bermuda 85 

demolish his property. I was sorry because of 
George's barren efforts, for I hated the surly lit- 
tle beast myself. 

In the wake of the tourist crowd we crossed to 
the road. The destination of everybody was St. 
David's Lighthouse on Moimt Hill, a half mile 
climb from the ferry landing. We bumped into 
the toiuists at the shore end of the dock. They 
were crowded about a rude framework cart to 
which were attached two of the most forlorn look- 
ing donkeys it has been my lot to see. The pair 
were driven by an old negro patriarch, with snow- 
white hair and whiskers. He had a shrunken, 
shriveled face, lighted by a pair of remarkably 
expressive eyes, that gave him an exceedingly in- 
congruous look. Everyone in the crowd, after the 
manner of tourists, wanted to be photographed on 
the cart in the act of driving. The Patriarch 
seemed indifferent to entreaties. Baldy of the 
Ship and the Brewer from Flatbush, U. S. A., got 



86 Isles m Summer Seas 

nto a really heated argument about the matter. 
Conversation waxed loud, drawing the attention 
of a couple of King George's men, loitering in the 
shade of an imcompleted ammimition house hard 
by. As they came over, one said to the other: 
"Hi say, Joe, hit's a bloomin' row!" 
The other said: "Aw! pink me full o' 'oles, 'twill 
come to naught." 

Nor did it. It developed that both Baldy and 
the Brewer had the same thing in mind, only ex- 
pressed differently. It was that the whole party 
be photographed on the cart in pairs. This being 
settled it was then a question of terms with the 
Patriarch. Precedence was given to the bridal 
couple, so the honeymooners mounted the cart, 
while the Guide posed the pair. Gracie draped 
her skirt over the rent in George's trouser leg just 
before the "Love Well damsel" snapped the cam- 
era. After that the instrument went out of com- 
mission. It may have been because the Brewer and 



Beautiful Bermuda 



his wife were posing, or it may have been for any 
other reason, but the fact remains it would not 
work. In the midst of the succeeding argument 
the "Love Well" damsel mounted the cart. At 
her imperious command the Patriarch started his 
team and the way was clear to the Lighthouse 
road. The two army men shaped a course for the 
shade of the ammunition house. 

Half way to the turn in the road up Mount Hill, 
we came to a cove in which, with tackle on her 
masts, lay a boat, heeled over on one side, in posi- 
tion for overhauling. Several men were painting 
and scraping her keel. The boat was The Secret 
— the first pilot boat launched in Bermuda waters. 
The Artist on this information unlimbered his 
sketching materials and got busy. The vessel was 
a trim looking craft, and if the stories they tell of 
her prowess are true, she 
has seen a lot more 
weather than many a full 




88 Isles in Summer Seas 

rigged ship of five times her size on the stormy 
main. We learned that she rode out the hurri- 
cane of 1896, when seas in the land-locked 
harbor raced over the Government buildings in 
Convict Bay and on Ordnance Island. 

This detail the Artist picked up from a boat- 
man — a typical St. David's Islander, who was a 
member of her crew. The Artist was very partic- 
ular about this sketch — it was his first on St. Dav- 
id's and the fortieth in the series. Further along 
up Mount Hill we passed the Brewer and his wife. 
She was a heavy woman, who labored excessively 
in the climb. A little way along, my attention 
was attracted by the sound of a plaintive bleat, 
apparently emanating from a patch of cactus and 
cedars on the roadside. It called for investigation. 
A little weakling kid disclosed itself, hopelessly en- 
tangled in the rope by which it was tethered. I 
stooped to loosen the cord. The Brewer and his 
wife toiled by. They had speculated as to the 



Beautiful Bermuda 



89 



source of the doleftd sounds emitted by the hand- 
ful of kid struggling in my hands. 

"It's a goat all right!" she panted. 

"You get my goat ! " he growled. " If it hadn't 
been for you I'd be down at Coney Island, 
takin' it easy!" 

What she said to that we could not hear. 

When we stood on the apex of 
Mount Hill, we were right 
under St. David's Light- 
house. It was an octagonal 
limestone tower, 5 5 feet from 
base to lantern, and nearly 
209 feet above sea level. The tourist crowd 
was squatted on the grass at its founda- 
tion, resting after the climb up the hill. Baldy 
of the Ship was the only one standing and 
he was creating a little diversion for the party. 
Removing his cap he exposed a sweaty pate and 
scraped the perspiration off on the grass at the 








90 Isles in Summer Seas 

feet of the " Love Well ' ' damsel. "Thus, I bap- 
tise thee, St. David!" he said. 

Everybody laughed except the Guide and the 
Artist. The latter said "Pish!" in disgust and 
dragged me off to the tower entrance. We made 
the acquaintance of the Keeper and were permit- 
ted to climb the stairs at his heels. The light- 
house was built in 1879, he told us. Its steady 
white light enables navigators to take cross bear- 
ings with the Gibb's Hill flash down in Southamp- 
ton, at Great Whale Point — Bermuda's answer- 
ing beacon. The eastern gallery of St. David's 
overlooks the new St. David's Fort and the rugged 
cliffs of St. David's Head, beyond which are buoys 
marking the channel through the barrier reefs to 
the north and east. Due north and west the bays 
between St. David's and Smith's came into view. 
We could make out the harbor and town and the 
pinkish red washed buildings on Ordnance Island. 
South and southwest were the breakers and the 



Beautiful Bermuda ' 91 

islands of Castle Harbor down to the lower edge 
of Tucker's Town. These views were pointed out 
to us by the Keeper. 

*'Is it always rough in Castle Harbor?" I in- 
quired. 

He looked me over contemplatively. "Well," 
he said slowly, "the currents criss-cross and there 
is generally a smother of sea, let the wind blow as 
it will. Boy an' man for fifty years I've always 
fought shy of the churnin' down there where the 
inlet leads to Tucker's Town." He stopped and 
looked full at me. 

"D'ye think of goin' there by water?" 

"Yes!" I said faintly. 

He took another long look at me. 

"Not goin' alone?" 

I shook my head. 

"Captain S of Ordnance Island is going to 

take us. He's mending a hole in his boat now," 
I ended falteringly. 



92 Isles in Summer Seas 

The Keeper's jaw dropped in amazement. 

"That daredevil!" he said. 

I thought I noted a Httle tremolo in the Artist's 
voice when he changed the subject, which he did 
almost immediately. He asked about Castle 
Island. The Keeper grew descriptive. "That's 
it down there in a smudge of gray. It's all a gray 
ruin, and a bleak, barren spot with only sage 
bush, prickly pears and scrub cedar — it's full of 
goats, rabbits, lizards and crabs. The very look 
of the place will make your flesh creep, but it's 
easier to get to than Tucker's Town — aye, much 
easier!" 

We learned from him that Castle Harbor used 
to be the chief anchorage of early Bermuda, but 
that for two himdred years the coral insects have 
worked so rapidly that the whole harbor is now 
filled with shoals; it is really a succession of sea 
gardens — the show place beloved of toiirists. 
Then he told us about the lighthouse of which 



Beautiful Bermuda 93 

he was keeper. It seems that the plan of estab- 
lishing St. David's Light was bitterly opposed by 
the Islanders. This opposition was openly fos- 
tered by the natives because of the knowledge 
that with the light a profitable source of liveli- 
hood would pass. There would no longer exist a 
reason for beach-combing. Up to the time the 
light was established, the native was a wrecker 
by occupation. He explored the beaches at the 
base of the cliffs, taking as his own the spoils of 
the sea. The stories we heard concerning wrecks 
driven on the barrier reefs along the much feared 
east coast made our blood run cold. Collectively 
these were a sad commentary on the manhood of 
the hardy Islanders who, in times past, hailed 
with delight the destruction of the stressed, storm 
riven craft, lost in the wild Atlantic surges. 

We learned, too, of the long and patient fight 
for the St. David's beacon, made by a man of 
gentle parts, in the town of St. Georges. This 



94 /^Vc^ /;/ Summer Seas 

man is Honorable Joseph IMing Ha3T\'ard, who 
reckoned it the happiest moment of a long life 
when he viewed from his veranda, for the first 
time, the steadj' warning ray on the tower of St. 
David's. It represented the ctdniination of 
thirty yeai^s of effort. 

Down at the base of the tower the Artist com- 
posed himself to sketch. The tourists had scat- 
tered, a few were tip in the gallery of the light- 
house looking down. The others lay, sat or 
stood about on the grass. The "Love Well" 
damsel and Baldy exliibited a keen interest in 
the Artist and his work. They edged over to 
him to watch his pencilings. 

"Oh, wouldn't I like to do that ! " she exclaimed 
ecstatically. 

Baldy said he laiew a man on Broadwaj^jN. Y., 
who was a cracker-jack at that sort of thing and 
he forthwith launched into a description of his 
own skill in earlier years. The Artist made a few 



Beautiful Bermuda 95 

observations, politely explanatory. These were 
addressed to the "Love Well" damsel. She was 
demurely attentive and sat on the grass along- 
side of him. Baldy seemed a bit put out, in fact, 
he was plainly annoyed. Others of the party 
gathered round and presently the Artist was the 
center of a group of admiring females. The 
Brewer and his wife joined the crowd, but she 
said she was tired and flopped down on the grass. 
She was not too tired to talk, however. She was 
carrying a hand bag of leather; a gold mesh 
pocket book and other gold things dangling on the 
chain. She laid everything down to mop her face, 
and then carried on a rapid fire conversation with 
other members of the party. What she said had 
a good deal to do with the sea trip down to 
Bermuda; how sick her brewer husband was and 
what nice people they knew in Flatbush. She was 
talking volubly and gesturing with her arms and 
hands, when suddenly she screamed: 



96 Isles in Summer Seas 

"Somebody's stolen my pocket book!" 

Everybody jumped up immediately. 

" I laiow they liave. It was full of money, too! " 
she cried excitedly. 

There was instant consternation in the little 
gathering. Folks began to edge away from one 
another, darting suspicious glaiices back and 
forth. The only one in the crowd who didn't 
move was the Artist. The Brewer looked at 
Baldy openly. 

The "Love Well" damsel broke the tense 
silence. 

"Perhaps you put it in your handbag," she 
suggested icily. 

The woman stiatehed up her haiuibag, pro- 
testing shrilly: "I know some one has it!" She 
opened the receptacle nevertheless. There lay 
the gold mesh bag and the other gold things. 

"Well, somebody put it there — I didn't!" 
she snapped, looking aromid defiantly. 



Beautiful Bermuda 97 

The Brewer turned upon her. What he said is 
of no consequence to anyone. Suffice it that 
George and Gracie held hands. She looked ap- 
pealingly into his eyes, while his lips answered 
her mute question with a positive declaration 
that no such storm cloud should ever, ever rise 
above the horizon of their connubial partnership. 

The Guide came forward. 

"We start back now to catch the ferry." 

The Artist and I remained on the hill — he had 
his interrupted sketch to finish. 

"Do you know," he said pensively, "that the 
'Love Weir damsel is not a bad sort!" 

"No?" I questioned. 

"No," he said positively. "She's interested in 
art and all that. Furthermore she's to be at the 
ball up at the hotel to-night." 

"Indeed!" I observed. Then I remarked fur- 
ther: "I assume that we are going to the ball!" 

"You are good at deduction!" 



98 



Isles in Summer Seas 




"And you seem to be like a fly badly tangled 
up in some sort of a net. Is this thing going to 
break up our trip?" 

He laughed blithely and then quoted from 
Withers: 

" ' Be she fairer than the day, 

Or the flowery meads in May; 
If she be not so to me, 

What care I how fair she be?' " 

With this I was forced to remain content. 
We caught the "Daisy" on her last trip back 
from St. David's. It was dusk and the short 
autumn twilight came down on us before we got 
out of DoUy's Bay. There was a racing tide 
through the narrow way between Smith's and St. 
David's and the Pilot had to signal 
many times to the engine room for 
speed to stem it. Seated on the cabin 
roof on that trip back was one of the 
most delightful experiences we ever had. 



Beautiful Bermuda 99 

The thick-set, heavily wooded shores of Smith's ran 
down to the edge of the water. Up on the slopes 
the trees thinned out rapidly. Now and then a 
date palm, scrubby and old, stood lonely, clinging 
to the thin soil in a seemingly desperate effort to 
obtain sustenance. Half way across the harbor 
we looked back at the black bulk of St. David's 
and caught the steady glow of the beacon as the 
light shot out into the night. We were the 
"Daisy's" only passengers. 




CHAPTER VI 

T" " T seemed to me that the Artist dressed for 
dinner with more care than usual. He 
was overly particular about his tie and 
the set of his stiff shirt. He had a two 
days' growth of beard which he said he would 
have removed after we had dined. The obsequi- 
ous Thomas brushed, with many an apology, an 
imaginary speck of lint from my coat, as we sat 
down at the table. He seemed very solicitous 
as to our comfort and, after the manner of the 
well-ordered Island waiter, appealed to us to 
know if we had had a pleasant afternoon. The 
Artist said "Fine and dandy!" Thomas knew 
positively that we had not been to Tucker's Town 
and so did every one else within a mile of Ord- 



TOO 



Beautiful Bermuda loi 



nance Island, but he asked just the same what we 
thought of the place, and if the water was rough. 
Indeed he looked quite sad and disappointed 
when infomied that we still had the pleasures of 
that trip in sight. 

There were many people in the dining-room 
and we soon discovered that most of them were 
going to the ball up at the hotel. In the com- 
pany were several tourists whom we had not seen 
before. A party of two— man and wife, I judged, 
at a table near us discussed the pleasures of a 
trip by carriage, in the afternoon drive, over to 
Walsingham House. They had seen the famous 
calabash tree under which Tom Moore wooed the 
Muse in solitary happiness. Also they were en- 
chanted with the rustic bridge in the grounds. 
We were mightily interested in this and the Artist 
leaned over to whisper to me: 

"We get an early start to-morrow and take all 
that in. " The lady was most enthusiastic about 



102 Isles in Summer Seas 

Tom Moore. She said he was the true poet of 
Bermuda. She knew he was charmed with the 
place because he wrote such pretty verses about 
the Islands. Listen to this, dear," she said, lean- 
ing across to her vis-a-vis: 

" 'But bless the little fairy isle! 
How sweetly, after all our ills, 
We saw the dewy morning smile 
Serenely o'er its fragrant hills! 
And felt the pure elastic flow 
Of airs that round this Eden blow. 
With honey freshness caught by stealth, 
Warm from the very lips of health!' " 

"Jove! but you've caught the spirit of the 
poet," he said. "I don't like the knocking about 
in the Gulf Stream, but when one lands — well, 
it's like getting into another world. I'm here 
with a tremendous appetite and enchanted." 

There was a good deal more of it, all to the 
same effect. We had at length met two tourists 



Beautiful Bermuda 103 

who were not bored. On the way out the Artist 

stopped to speak with K . In the lobby I met 

Mrs. K and the Inn cat. The latter twisted 

and purred in ecstasy at being noticed and stroked, 

"You should be glad not to have taken the trip 
to the Natural Arch," she said. "It has been 
terribly rough in Castle Harbor." 

"Yes," I answered, "the keeper at the light- 
house and lots of other people have told us what 
a bad bit of water Castle Harbor is; and I have 
come to believe it." 

"What did the keeper say?" she inquired. 

I told her in as few words as possible, even in- 
cluding the keeper's estimate of Captain S . 

Her comment on this was to remark tersely: 

"Well, he has a reputation!" 

The Artist came in at that juncture, smiling 
cheerfully, as was his wont. He had picked up 

some nautical verse from Captain S and 

this he growled out in deep tones: 



104 ^^"^^^'-^ ^" Sumntfr Seas 

"List to the talcs of old 

When we harried the coast of Spain! 
O, ■we're a couple of sailors bold, 
And we Io%-e the raging main. " 

Mrs. K laughed, then said, apropos of noth- 
ing, "'The tourist folk at the St. Georges are giv- 
ing the colored people a cake walk in the Town 
HaU to-morrow night." 

"Wo go if we have to pay to get in," said the 
Artist determinedly, slapping me rudely on the 
K^ck. 

''Wliy, the Scribe sa}"? you are going to the 
Natural Arch with Captain S . " she obser\-ed. 

*'Sure — ^to-morrow at noon! But we hope to 
come back." 

"Of coiu^e they expect to come back." cut in 
Mr. K who entered the room at that moment. 

To me there seemed to be a good deal of unnec- 
essary emphasis on the "expect". The Artist 
apparently failed to notice it. Nearly fifteen 



Beautiful Bermuda 105 

minutes later we pushed in the door of a house on 
York Street at Old Maid's Alley. It was the shop 
of a jack-of-all-trades, to which the proprietor 
had added as a side line the profession of hirsute 
artist. He styled himself a barber. There were 
a few fixtures in the place suggestive of the art. 
These were mainly a small looking glass, two raz- 
ors, a shaving cup and an ordinary arm chair. 
Mr. Barber at our behest laid aside a banana he 
was peeling, lighted an extra lamp, rolled up two 
soiled shirt sleeves, worked up a prodigious quan- 
tity of lather, and called for the first victim. The 
Artist, who seemed to fear nothing, responded 
with alacrity. 

During the ensuing operation Mr. Barber gave 
us a history of his life from the period of adoles- 
cence to the time of our arrival. He asked us 
many questions concerning the great outside 
world from which we came and took an extremely 
lively interest in our ramble. When the Artist 



io6 



Isks in Summer Seas 



spoke of the Natural Arch and Tucker's Town, 
inchiding our projected tiip on the morrow with 

Captain S , the Barber was sha\-ing me. He 

had the razor poised abo\Te my feat\ires with a 





m:-&-:'.'/ 



part of the ties'- •.•.-'.'or my chin pinched betwixt 
his fingers and :..::... ready for scraping. 

**You said A.X'u weie gcan' to Tucker's Town, 
ov^r across Castle Harbor!" he remarked in a 



Beautiful Bermuda 107 

kind of husky breath. He addressed the 
Artist. 

"That's what I said," repHed the Artist, mov- 
ing about restlessly in the shop. 

The lamp above my head was smoking horri- 
bly. The Barber's thumb and fingers gripped the 
fold under my chin tighter. "Not — in a small 
boat ! " He was getting huskier 

"Surest thing you know!" said the Artist with 
an air of finality. 

I was seeing things in that horribly crawly 
smoke above the lamp. The fellow had pulled 
my chin up so that the back of my neck rested 
on the hard rail of the chair. It was a painful 
position. I couldn't cry out — I could only gasp. 
Then he resumed operations and finished the 
job. 

"You pay for me," I said to the Artist. "I 
wouldn't give him a sou!" 

The Artist paid. Mr. Barber followed us to the 



lo8 



Isles in Summer Seas 



door. "We're likely to have a good deal of wind 
to-morrow," he said quite casually. 
We took the turn into Old Maid's Alley, stop- 




ping at the entrance to Boynton — the gateway 
leading into the home of the postmaster. He was 
there with a lantern, a little to the left of the 
Alley, waiting to be our guide to the hotel further 



Beautiful Bermuda 



109 



up the hill. We were greeted cheerily. On the 
way the postmaster told us much about the hotel. 
He is a stockholder in the structure and, along 




with all the other influential townspeople, was 
deeply interested in the Town Cut project. The 
hotel is really a part of the town, since its con- 
struction was due solely to the financial enter- 



no Isles in Summer Seas 

prise and aid of the business interests in St. 
Georges. The architectural plan of the hotel is 
unique. The north end from the foundation to 
the w-ide veranda is formed in the shape of a ship, 
the model being designed after the plan of the Sea 
Venture, the ship wTecked on Sea Ventiu^ Flats 
in 1609. There are gunports along the sides and 
the impression of a ship is carried out on the ver- 
anda floor. This is fitted with a ship's rail along 
the outer edge. Scuppers, cabin sk}'Ughts and a 
ship's binnacle are spread over the flooring. The 
illusion is carried out further by a carelessly flung 
coil of rope, a life buoy on the rail and a few hand- 
spikes. Under the deck, or veranda floor, is the 
grill room, its walls and ceiling fitted with beams 

and timbers like the interiorof a ship. Mr. B , 

the postmaster, took us about the place, explain- 
ing many matters. On deck we leaned over 
the rail, looking northward to Somers' Point, and 
gazed directly over the to\sTi, l}4ng peacefully in 



Beautiful Bermuda in 

the hollow. It was dark, too, moonrise being 
far off. Behind us across the veranda lay the 
brilliantly lighted ballroom, alive with many mov- 
ing figures in the mazes of a waltz. In a little 

while I missed the Artist. Presently Mr. B 

excused himself also. There were a nimiber of 
people at the rail enjoying the rich beauty of the 
night. Hardly a breath stirred anywhere. It 
was an easy trick to look up into the starlit heav- 
ens and imagine one's self afloat on the sea. It 
was too dark below at that hour to discern trees 
in outline, consequently the illusion was almost 
perfect. Down the deck near the poop several 
girls came to a halt. They were talking and 
laughing, I surmised that they were tourists. 
"It's dreadfully slow here," remarked one of 
the number. "Now, in Hamilton there is a dif- 
ferent air. There are the Military Band and the 
big lawns and lots of real life." She spoke dis- 
contentedly. 



112 Isles in Summer Seas 

"Yes," said another, "it is stupid and slow 
after Hamilton. Think of the beautiful drives 
over there. It was yesterday, only, that we drove 
over Somerset to Ely's Harbor, they call it, where 
the Cathedral Rocks can be seen. Believe me! 
they are beautifiil. Then we went to Wreck Hill 
and, after that, to Ireland Island. Oh! we had a 
perfectly grand day." 

The third member of the group said she rather 
liked St. Georges because everything seemed so 
quiet and quaint. Then they moved away from 
the rail. I was moving off, too, when a couple 
emerging from the ballroom took up a position 
near me. He was fanning her; she was talking 
animatedly. 

"Why, yes; we are going over to Crystal Cave 
and Tom Moore's old house early to-morrow. 
Maybe we shall meet there." It was the "Love 
Well" damsel and the man at her side was the 
Artist. I took a slanting look at him and 



Beautiful Bermuda 



113 



promptly turned my back. It was not my inten- 
tion to play eavesdropper, but I did hear him say 
he was simply enraptured with the whole trip and 
that already he had made fifty sketches. He then 




promised to show them to her. Shortly there- 
after the moon rose. It was a waning orb, but it 
lighted up things a good deal in its progress over 
the arch, quickly dispelling the illusion of the 



114 -^''^^'-^ *" Summer Seas 

ship. But it was lx\uitihil nnd tl\o scone drew 
many tired dancers v v.: :":oin the ballroom. The 
Artist lost his pan nor presently and w'as soon 
standing beside me, w*itli a \*erv* mucli wilted 

collar. 

•• Pity yon wouldn't introduce me to yonr pretty 
girl friend." I said. 

He only looked nie o\-er supercilioiisl}- and 

mmiediaioly began to descant upon the beauty 
of the scene. Then aproT^x^is of nothing in the 
world he quoted from Moore's Odes to Nea. 

*' 'X-u-. tempt mo not to lovo again, 

Tp.oro was a time \Yhon lovo was swoot. 
Po-r \\\-. ! V.ad I kno\\Ti thoo then. 
Our sonls had iiot booti slow to moot.' 

It was my tiuri to look hitn over. Had he 
turned sentitnental, or was this ebuUitioit of musli- 
iness only assunied? I tni^^ht have answered him 
out of hand, and, perchance, somewhat rudely, 
had not otu- friend B made at that moment a 



Beautiful Bermuda 



115 



third in our company at the rail. The Artist 
asked him about "Nca" of the Odes and Tom 
Moore. From him we learned "Nea" was Hester 
Louise Tucker, the fascinating wife of William 
Tucker of vSt. Georges. It appears in the story 
that Moore's harailess attentions to Mrs. Tucker 
aroused the jealousy of her husband. At the 

time Moore was in his twenty-fifth year. B 

pointed to a crumbling ruin, off to the right in the 
town, that was barely discernible in the moon- 
light. This he described as the childhood home 
of Nea. He left us in doubt as to the ultimate 
fate of the lady, but the little he told quickened 
the Artist's interest in the proposed trip to Wal- 
singham House, the calabash tree and the Cave 
Region. He could think of little else. 

In the early morning I 
awoke to find the rain beat- 
ing heavily against the win- 
dows. It was the first rain 



y 







Ii6 /.N~.'c\N- //; Summer Seas 

since oiir amA-^1 and it v\-as coming down in 
fierce torrents. I imderstood then whore and how 
Bennudians seaired a water supply. At the en- 
trance to the Inn we looked into a gloom}' daT\^l. 
Water soaked natives raced theu- way across the 
flooded Square. Many of them in shelter wore 
talking clieerily and laughing loudly. A good deal 
of the con\'ersation was about the coming cake 
walk ill the To^^^l Hall. Loaning against this 
structure was Bill of tlio Stago.out to do his moni- 
ing's markoting. 

-Hello, Bill:"' shouted the Artist. 

Bill sliuffled briskly over to the Inn, v\-ith his 
hands full of meat. 

*'Momin', gentlemen! Guess you didn't go to 
Tueker's Town y'storday, did you?" This was a 
declaration, and Bill laughed gleefully, not to say 
loudly. 

The Artist ignored the observation. 

'"'Can you take us in the stage to a point 



Beautiful Bermuda 117 



near Walsingham House in, say, half an hour?" 
he asked. 

"I kin," said Bill definitely. "Goin' to Tuck- 
er's Town and the Nateral Arch that-a- 
way? " 

The Artist entered into some explanation. 

"M-m!" said Bill, "then you're goin' like you 
planned." 

"We are if it don't rain," I answered, cheerfully 
confident that it would. 

"O, it'll clear — bye an' bye!" said he 
airily. 

In an hour's time it had cleared. The great 
masses of clouds were swept across the sky and 
the sun shone brightly. Soon there was nothing 
to tell us it had stormed except a wide patch of dis- 
colored water in the Styx, into which had run the 
overflow from the Square. The wind in the wake 
of the rain was high and it came from the east. 
In the stage out to the Causeway Bill cocked his 



ii8 



Isles in Smnmer Seas 



eye at the wind and observed casually that it 
looked mighty like more weather. 




"Spec' by the time I gets back from Hamilton 
'bout noon, there'll be some wind 'round 'bout 
the Swing Bridge!" Then he laughed and the 



Beautiful Bermuda 119 



near horse performed under his ministrations with 
the whip, just as it did when we made the memo- 
rable trip on the eve of our landing. 

On Long Bird Island, over the bridge, he picked 
up another passenger, with whom he discussed 
prospects for the coming crops of potatoes and 
onions. A little beyond Joyce's Caves the road 
turned westward at a sharp angle. Bill drew in 
his team. 




CHAPTER VII 

OU gentlemen get off here for 
Walsin'am House. It's a mile 
or so along, with sign posts 
here and there. I 'm due back at 
this p'int 'bout 'leven o'clock," 
declared Bill of the Stage. 
We paid him, thanked him and waved him good 
bye. The Artist looked at his watch, reflected a 
moment and then led the way along the sweet 
scented road. He was unusually cheerful and full 
of the poetry of it all. "Listen to this," he said, 
quoting from Moore : 

*"0h! could you view the scenery, dear, 
That now beneath my window lies, , 



120 



Beautiful Bermuda 



121 



You 'd think that Nature lavish 'd here 

Her purest wave, her softest skies. 
To make a heaven for love to sigh in, 
For bards to live and saints to die in! '" 




In the walk from there to the turn into Wal- 
singham, I tried to figure out the change in the 
Artist. But I couldn't. We followed a track 
through a bit of natural woodland and, at its 
inner edge, where the trees thinned to a clearing, 
we got our first view of Walsingham. It lay on 



122 



Isles in Summer Seas 



the far side of a quiet bay whose waters reflected 
the outlines of the historic building. The Artist 
unlimbered his sketching materials, and there I 










left him. A short walk brought me in front of the 
house at close range. The lawn was ill-kept; the 
surroimdings neglected. Hanging from the limb 



Beautiful Bermuda 



123 



of a tree, a rod or so from the house, was a bell — 
a relic picked up from the wreckage of some ship. 










A 
a 



;-7 






In the narrow porch I peeped into rooms imfur- 
nished and bare. The house was empty save for 



124 ^^^^ *" Summer Seas 

an old deal table and a few crippled and modem 
looking chairs. It was a place of many rooms, 
liowe\-er, as we found later. 

It is the home of the Trott feimily and no dotibt 
in its day was a pretentious abode. The situation 
was charming, but the spot decidedly lonely. On 
its north side a big date pahn sighed in the wind. 
Beneath its cooling shade I lay down to await the 
completion of the Artist's sketch. I must have 
fallen asleep thinking of Tom Moore and the Nea 
of the Odes. I remember reflecting upon the fact 
that Bermuda knew the Irish Poet a brief four 
months, and j^et in that short space of time he 
secured a fixed place in the history of the Islands. 

I was rudely awal^ned by the clang of a bell. 
Looking up in a dazed sort of way I saw the Art- 
ist, the "Love Well'' damsel and a half dozen 
other people. Two carriages at the edge of the 
wood told me how these folks had come. Palpa- 
bly I was the only one surprised. It was made 



Beautiful Bermuda 125 



plain to mc that the Artist had been privy to this 
visit— in short, he had a hand in its arrangement. 
The hell that had awakened me roused a darkey 
out of an early morning trance at the back of the 
house. At the Artist's bidding he unlocked the 
front door, allowing the company to stroll into the 
small room off the porch. It was a place and time 
for asking questions, and as everyone there, espe- 
cially the women, exercised the right to the full, 
the farm hand was kept pretty busy. We discov- 
ered that there were no records. The only thing 
bearing on the house and Moore's connection with 
it was a leaf torn from an ancient magazine. This 
I picked up from a window ledge. We looked 
through all the bare rooms; admired the rude, 
quaint old fashioned fireplace, now so empty and 
bare. The house had the same barren look up- 
stairs. The Artist made a sketch of the staircase 
to the first turn. He said it resembled mediaeval 
architecture. There were none there to dispute 



126 



Isles in Summer Seas 



him. This staircase was made of cedar, as was 
also the inner wainscoting of the several living 
rooms. 

Tiring of the house, we followed a winding path 




leading over a rustic bridge across the head of a 
narrow cove. This path led among curious grot- 
toes embellished with flowering vines and plants, 
masses of cactus and Spanish bayonet. It was a 



Beautiful Bermuda 



t2f 



riotous tangle through which our party wandered 
on the way to the calabash tree. By the rail of the 
rustic bridge we looked down upon rough, sub- 
merged rock, covered with an odd spongy sea- 
growth, among which floated, in beautiful lazy 
indolence, the radiant angel fish and the red jawed 
grouper. There were many other varieties dart- 
ing in and out of the rocky crevices, but the angel 
fish were the main attraction. The "Love Well" 
damsel clapped her hands in an ecstasy of delight. 
It was her first look at the beauties. Others on 
the bridge had seen them many times before — in 
Battery Park, New York. Here they floated in 
natural freedom, easy and graceful as a flash of 
silk. 

At this place the Artist made another sketch — 
this time of the rustic bridge, with 
the "Love Well" damsel gazing 
down into the rocky pool. We 
followed Tom Moore's route to the 




128 Isles in Summer Seas 

calabash tree, in the grassy hollow, where 
the poet dreamed and wooed the Muse. In 
the center of this plot a solitary date palm 
reared its head. At the far end the famous 
calabash tree stood, naked of leaves and 
seemingly lifeless. It had a scant show of 
limb and was, v^'ithal, not much to look at. Be- 
neath it stood a very modem park bench and on 
this several women in the party became grouped 
at once. All wanted to sit on the spot where the 
immortal poet composed his Odes to Nea. The 
beautiful in the surroundings forced sentiment 
even from the Artist, and while he worked out a 
sketch, under the eyes of the "Love Well" dam- 
sel, he quoted freely from Moore: 

" 'Last night, when I came from the Calabash tree, 
\Mien my limbs were at rest and my spirits were free, 
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day 
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play; 
And oh! such a vision as haunted me then 
I would slumber for ages to witness again! ' " 



Beautiful Bermuda 129 

In some disgust I moved away; but the "Love 
Well" damsel stayed. I then, for the first time, 
recalled the big dose of brackish mixture the Art- 
ist had imbibed from Lunn's Well — the hole we 
called the " Love Well. " Was it possible that the 
legend held a true prophecy? Was the Artist, at 
this stage of the game, smitten by a pretty figure 
and a laughing face? Ye Gods! if so, then good 
bye to sketching and the long anticipated pleas- 
ures of our holiday together. 

This ran in my mind as I crossed the cool, green 
glen to the border where cedar brush hung heavily 
shrouded in jasmine, and wild olive and lemon 
trees clung to the sloping soil. I walked among 
stalactitic walls of fallen caverns and looked into 
the mouths of subterranean chambers masked at 
their entrance by creepers, ferns and mosses. 
Here I saw for the first time the fiddle- wood, which 
assumes, as its regular dress, soft autumn tints, 
thus heightening the effects of color everywhere. 



130 Ishs in Summer Seas 

This place — ^^'alsingham — ^w^as named after its 
first explorer, the coxswain of the Sea Venture. 
The guide of the little party volunteered this bit 
of information in the few brief sentences he had 
uttered since leaNnnc; the rustic bridi];e. He said 
also, that the rocks exposed to ^'iew in this section 
are the oldest on the islands and that the caves 
were excavated by percolating rain water and 
fresh water streams in the hard limestone. The 
percolation washed out through hidden channels 
the loose sand and earth underl}Tng the hardened 
svirface, so producing recesses in which stalactite 
and stalagmite have formed by the constant 
dripping of water, each drop carr\-ing a mi- 
nute deposit of carbonate of lime which was 
acquired from the calcareous soil in the filter- 
ing process. 

I had more on my mind than this bit of phenom- 
ena when we were once more on the main road, 
away from the damp shado'5\'y glades. The Art- 



Beautiful Bermuda 



131 



ist was whistling a hint too carelessly to be nat- 
ural, so I said: 

"Of course that girl dropped her handkerchief 
by accident!" 

He looked at me bluntly, but kept on whistling. 

"I refer to the bit of cambric and lace the girl 
who had you in tow all morning threw out of the 
carriage on the lawn at Walsingham, when she 
thought others, save one, saw her not." I said 
this in my iciest manner. 

He came back at me quickly. "Do you dare 

insinuate that Miss G would purposely throw 

this thing", he held out the violet scented fabric, 
"tome!" 

" Miss G ! " I faltered. " Do you 

know her name?" 

But I didn't need to ask. He did, 
evidently. We stopped to rest on a 
low wall skirting Church Bay, on Har- 
rington Sound. Up the hill was Holy 




Isks in Sumtfur Sees 



Trinity Chiirch, the parish church of Hamilton. 
It was another one of the oldest churches in the 
colony. Further along the road, where it turned 
into "Wilkinson A\'enue, :^. si:':AX^Uio\ii^" stood. As 
we looked, a dozen or :v v. .\ ored girls romped 
out of it, pursuing each other in a ganie of tag. 
They spied us on the wall and drew together after 
the manner of shy damsels. 

•"Look heie, girls," s:dd the Artist, "sit 
on the waU across the way and sing *God 
Save The King' — there's a penny for each if 
you do." 

The tallesi one stepped forward. "Well sing 
it for nothing, sir!" 

And they did. They did more — they sat on the 
wall while the Artist sketched m an irregular show 
of stockinged legs, short skirts, pinafores and 
".. -c .--:ig, dusk\- faces, and the wall itself. We 
g.»\ e them thrupence each, so they climbed down 
and sang the anthem again. This time an old 



Beautiful Bermuda 133 

negro was one of us, bowed over his cane, with his 
liat off. 

We licul time after that to look in at Crystal 
Cave and CahoAV Lake. We entered at the top of 
a hill where the pay station and registry book are 
located. It was a descent of ninety feet through 
a rift in the strata, by means of a rude stairway 
fitted at intervals with rest platforms. At the 
bottom we stood in a clammy atmosphere, on the 
shore of a lake named Cahow, across which is 
moored a pontoon bridge lighted by gas. We were 
in a worlfl (jf crystal, a scintillating creation of 
lime and water. From the salmon tinted ceiling 
there hung thousands of stalactites, some mere 
threads, others conical masses, pure as crystal, 
many inches in diameter at the base. There are 
translucent draperies, mushroom effects, banks of 
calcite, snow white and polished like diamonds. 
Each living stalactite holds a glistening drop of 
water at its extremity. 



134 /^/ej in Summer Seas 

The cave has its guides, dusky chaps who move 
about in torpid indifference to the wonders dis- 
played. One of them shuffled about with us, tell- 
ing us the tale of Cahow Lake as he went. He 
said the name originated from the fact that in one 
of the chambers were foimd deeply imbedded in 
the caldte the fossilized bones and feathers of the 
cahow, a bird that became extinct about L630. 
The lake itself is subject to tidal changes, indicat- 
ing connection with Castle Harbor or Harrington 
Sound. It is a matter of fact that this cave was 
discovered by two negro lads and that their only 
reward was a paltry ten dollars. There are sev- 
eral other notable caves in this region, among 
them being Admiral's Cave and Joyce's Dock, 
or Shakespeare Grottoes. A lost cave there is, the 
earth having settled over the entrance long years 
ago. The last known of it is recorded as far back 
as 1858. In that year two escaped convicts were 
traced to its mouth and eventually recaptured. 



Beautiful Bermuda 135 

They had made the cave their habitation for a 
matter of eight months. During that time one of 
them had carved the figure of an angel in the cal- 
cite bed in one corner of the cavern. This piece 
of sculptiuing is said to have been a marvel of 
beauty and, so the story goes, earned for the art- 
ist convict his freedom. Efforts to find this cave 
have since been futile. We were content with our 
investigation of one cave, because it was near the 
hoiir when we were to meet Bill of the Stage at the 
crossroads, so we hastened to that locality. 

A cycling tourist dismounted to get a better 
look at the signboard at the turn of the road. He 
eyed us narrowly as we lay stretched at full length 
on the sloping turf by the wayside. 

"Natives?" he called. 

I shook my head in the negative. He came 
back at me with another question. 

"Got a match?" 

I looked stupid and contiaued to shake my 



130 



J.^;<\s in Summer Sa:^ 



head. He became busy with his hands, fomiing a 
few hastily made letters frcxin the deaf and dtmib 
alphabet. I stiU shook my head. 








:<\, 



"Gee!** he ejacolated, climbing aboard he 
whe^. He rode with his head turned back toward 
us nntil a bend in the road hid him from \-iew. 

"That fdlow acted qoeoiy!" Svid :he Artist, 



Beautiful Bermuda 137 

"He certainly did," I replied. 

We were now standinj^ in the center of the 
Swing Bridge. Bill was in the midst of a grajjhic 
description of a dog fight he had seen that morn- 
ing in Hamilton. He was not talking to us, but 
with an old gentleman sitting forward in his 
vehicle, his chin resting on his stick. He stopped 
suddenly, while his jaw dropped and the whites 
of his eyes rolled up. 

"You gentlemen," he was talking to us now, 
"goin' to find it mighty squally out in Castle Har- 
bor 'safternoon. vSee that white showin' up? Well 
we calls it cotton, an' salt water don't froth up like 
that 'lessen it's goin' to be a big wind. Gitap, you 
ole raw-boned she-devil. What you laggin' back 
fur?" He swiped the near horse with his whip 
and then dodged a pair of heels that came back 
viciously and swiftly toward his midriff. 

"It don't seem to hje very windy here," ven- 
tured the Artist timidly. 



13S IsJes in Summer Seas 

Bill looked at him pit\Tngly. ''Yoxi seo. you 
gentlemen don't know nothin' Tx)ut Castle Har- 
bor. If you did — ^vs-eU, there be — " He didn't 
finish. The near horse saw a chance to get back 
at Bill and took it. She missed him only because 
the dashboard interfered. From that point to the 
Market Square Bill de^-oted most of his attention 
to the refractory near side of his team. 

It happens not infrequently that a thought, a 
thing or an e^-ent the mind has been ailti\^ted to 
dread becomes, by habit of continual reflection, 
a creation in the brain, so siibtle in its workings 
as to actiiaUy affect the ph\-sical being. The same 
effect is prodiiced in the timid by a sudden fear 
and is more often than not expressed in that form 
of muscular relaxation commonly termed "quak- 
ing at the knees. '* It was so with me, though the 
ph}-sical disability referred to was not so pro- 
nounced as to become a \^ble reality. The open- 
ly expressed and co\-ertly insinuated dangers 



Beautiful Bermuda 139 

crowding Castle Harbor and the trip to Tucker's 
Town, in company with a man who, to say the 
least, was credited with a woeM disregard of 
perils and the hazard of life, worked upon my 
imagination. I conceived all sorts of dire and 
threatening terrors. It was chiefly because of 
these disconcerting and obtruding mental mani- 
festations that I made a miserable third in a trio 
seated in the English-looking bar of the Inn. The 

other two were Captain S and the Artist. 

Captain S was pouring out his third glass of 

Scotch and soda, when he turned to me: 

"It was this way, me lad. We'd bumped a coral 
reef in the 'Arbor, with the wind blowin' not a bit 
'arder than now. The lot of us were pitched for- 
rad in the sudden stop. Then the wash astern 
'eaved over us, an' near drowned me blinkin' 
mates!" 

This was the concluding observation in a de- 
tailed description of a trip Captain S had 



140 Isles in Summer Seas 

made by \Yater to Tucker's To\^^l. I had retained 
in my mind but one feature of liis description. 
It was the plirase: "-with the ■^■ind blo'uin' not 
a bit 'arder than now!" 

The xlrtist emptied his glass suddenly. 

"Everybody takes a chance in this life," he 
said. 

**' Right you are, me lad!" said Captain S , 

thumping me hea^-ily on the back, with a hand as 
homy as bone. ''But, mind you, we are goin' to 
ha\'e it rough, an' who laiows what " 

There was a step at the door and a man entered. 
It was Tim. He had his hand at salute. Captain 
S looked him over ■u'ith upraised glass, ar- 
rested half way to his lips. 

"Well?" he growled. 

"She's ready, sir!" 



CHAPTER VIII 




Y spirits fell again. I 
had thought the intru- 
sion of Tim meant 
more mishaps to the 
boat, with, perhaps, 
another respite for me. 
Down at the dock, at that hour nearly de- 
serted, I tumbled rather than crawled into the 
narrow cockpit of a mean-looking, heavily can- 
vased dinghy. There was a cushioned shelf run- 
ning from the half decked bow aft on both sides. 
In addition to the usual litter of ropes and loose 
wood, there were a center-board well, a big demi- 
john and a very tall glass. Fritz ran along the 
deck of the "Daisy," moored at her accustomed 



141 



142 Isles in Summer Seas 

anchorage, and barked savagely at us by way of 
greeting. Two soldiers and a bombadier stood at 
the water stairs, while a couple of darkeys came 
out from the dock shed and looked our party over. 
Especially did they seem to regard the sail. One 
said to the other: 

"She won't carry that long!" 

I looked up at the mast. There was a spread of 
canvas that to my eyes loomed like the side of a 
house. A rattle of rope forward made me look 
and gasp — Tim was hauling on the jib tackle! I 

glanced quickly back at Captain S . Was he 

mad? No; and yet — ^what did he mean? 

"Give 'er all she'll take, Tim, me man, an' 
stand clear. " 

Tim did. Captain S shoved the tiller over 

hard, we got the wind, ducked under the boom 
and when I crawled up to windward on the cush- 
ioned shelf, it was to see a curl of water swirling 
along at the lee-rail. Back on the " Daisy, " Fritz 



Beautiful Bermuda 



143 



yowled, racing madly around the deck, on the side 
nearest us, with his ridiculous stump of a tail 
pointing skyward. It was a run of a mile down to 
the Three Sister Islands, near the entrance to Cas- 




tle Harbor. A shade to the east of Stocks Point 
and the Stocks, in the narrow way, we jammed 
wind luider the bows of a ship, hard and fast on 
the coral. We missed her jib-boom by a yard and, 



144 



Isles in Summer Seas 




for a few moments, looked up into a mass of ropes 
and sta5-s, through which the wind whistled a 
dolorous time. 

The strong breeze had hauled a point south of 
east and tliis forced a tack through the Stocks, 
out between Long Bird Island and 
the western tip of St. Da\-id's. We 
had a wet beat to windward before 
we gained the passage of the Three 
Sisters. Before us la}- the wide, 
white-capped waste of Castle Har- 
bor, with its fringe of islands in the 
east. There was a steady drive in the wind, 
so that with close hauled sheet we maintained 
a hst rather more, than less, exhilarating. 

Captain S , in the pride of the hour, 

looked us over with a beaming eye. He 
was at home and wanted us to luiderstand 
that and the fact that liis mood was merry. 
By his direction the Artist filled the long glass 



Beautiful Bermiida 



145 



from the demijohn. Captain S held it 

up to view. 

"Who says water 'ere?" he queried. He gave 
us a straight look, drained the glass and said: 
"Fill up, mates!" 

We made a long tack northeast, with the bow 
pointed for St. David's lighthouse. This course 
was laid so we might obtain a near view of Coop- 
er's Island, Nonsuch and Castle Island on the way 
down. Tim was posted in the bow to look out for 
coral reefs. His was a lumbering soldier figure, 
poised on the half deck, securely braced in the jib 
stay. There was a feeling of buoyant 
pleasure in the motion as we rode the 
waves under the steady pull of the 
sail. The sky was near cloudless and 
the harbor was resplendent in vary- 
ing shades of blue and white. I began 
to take more interest in our surround- 
ings. There was that in the ease 




146 7^/^^ in Summer Seas 

with which our commander handled his craft that 
gave me a new confidence. We were an hour on 
this tack before Cooper's Island blocked the way. 
Captain S in his own way told us the his- 
tory of the place. No one lives there now and the 
island is infested with millions of land crabs — 
beautifully mottled creatures, with protruding 
eyes. When alarmed they scurry into their bur- 
rows like so many frightened rabbits. The Is- 
land's beaches are composed of sand, as fine as 
powdered sugar. On them are washed thousands 
of pink and green shells. There is a natural 
bridge off the southern beach, but vegetation is 
more a suggestion than a fact. 

We were interested chiefly in the Captain's 
story of a hidden treasure; a tale he told of Span- 
ish pirates, in the early days after the Sea Venture 
landing. The Captain's recital was disconnected, 
but from it we made out that a Spanish ship 
loaded with booty picked a way among the coral 



Beautiful Bermuda 147 

near Pear Rocks, where the vessel sprang a leak. 
This was in 161 3. To make repairs, it became 
necessary to lighten the ship. So boatload after 
boatload of spoil was carried to Cooper's Island 
and secreted, but before the repairs were made, a 
sudden storm swept the main, entirely destroying 
the ship and pirate crew. This in rough substance 
was his yam. The treasure is still undiscovered. 
That it exists is the belief of many a Bermudian, 
for years afterward a fisherman combing the beach 
found a brass plate with curious signs scratched 
upon its surface. That this plate marked at one 
time the location of the stolen hoard is the opin- 
ion of Captain S . 

At Nonsuch we scraped a coral reef that forced 
a flow of profanity from our skipper. It was 
directed mainly at Tim, who very deferentially 
observed: 

"The bloomin' reef 'eaved hup afore I knowed 
it, sir!" 



14S Isles in Summer Seas 

We sideswiped another while he was talking 
and Captain S yelled sternly: 

'" Pipe your eye, or youll 'ave the blinkin' keel 
above our eads!" 

In these drcumstances the only information we 
secured, relati\-e to Nonsuch, was that the island 
is the site of the quarantine detention station. It 
is a lonely heap of sand and rock, so for this and 
other reasons we gave it a wide berth. Up to this 
tune I had not noticed a disposition on the part 
of Castle Harbor to be rude and I said as much to 
Captain S . He looked at me narrowlj-. 

"Well get into the ruck o't goin' back." 

No landing was made at Castle Island, but we 
were near enough to the rough, somber ruins of 
the old forts to get a fair ^■iew. Here it was, in 
161 2, that Go\-emor Moore built his cedar gun 
platforms to protect Castle Harbor and the strug- 
gling settlement against attacks of the much 
feared Spaniards. The scheme of defense, Cap- 



Beautiful Bermuda 149 

tain S told us, is easily traced. King's 

Castle, at the eastern escarpment, is a ruin. 
There, in addition to gun embrasures, is a chamber 
hollowed out in the rock, with circular compart- 
ments for round shot. A stone rampart runs 
along the ocean side with more apertures for giuis 
at the west end. It is said that only once, in 1613, 
was the garrison of King's Castle called upon to 
make a show of force against an enemy. In that 
year two Spanish ships appeared off the harbor 
with the intention, it is said, of recovering the 
legendary buried treasure. The Spaniards were 
driven off successfully. These fortifications were 
repaired for the last time in the war of 181 2. 
Now the whole aspect is a crumbling, gray ruin, 
shot with windriven holes. 

After Castle Island we ran for Tucker's Town 
Bay, into which the dinghy slipped as gracefully 

as a swan. Captain S poked her nose on the 

sandy beach and we climbed out. To the south 



lay Paynrer's Vale Kill .m.'. :::e Vale itself. The 
Artfet and otir ;l-r': fr Ae' ::;:. ?::"e time to an 
pjramtTiat ion c'" : v: :.. " ;. ;; v A :". : 5.f".:-ohn, 
sfrer "^Hch. the Arzis: Ic-jkcc. for j. fcv,- ::-.::r.enrs 
2.: :':: :A:e of his watch. He inqaired rhe r:u:e 
iir-i.^llv tsten by tourists frtHn Paynter's Vale to 
rhe X-ir-ir.-l Arches. The Captain explained care- 
fofly. His directions were evidently satisfactory-. 
Tim was left in charge of the boat, with instrac- 
tioE^ to mind the jog and keep things shipshape, 
as the tide was faUing. 

In the long sandy walk over the hiH to the outer 
beach and the Natnial Arch, the Artist examined 
tlie face of he watch no less than nine times. This 
5:~ 1: . : 3s being decidedly peculiar for him, as 
he is assuredly not a methodical person, but I was 
: : : ::.:.. :ocapied in avoiding The srines of prick- 
ly : : Ar; : a: ined the way to give hihm more than 
;.i5 -.1 : ; .; : I/, about ten minutes vre crrssed 
£ level bi: :; ;^L:ii ;:i:id crawled :hr:uch i vrire 



Beautiful Bermuda 



151 



fence, beyond which stood the Natural Arch. Its 
massive gray proportions hid from our view the 
tumbling green of the surge beyond, save as we 
looked imder the wide arch itself. The rocks in 




their formation are hard limestone, surmounted 
by tufts of green and brown cedars, wild gorse and 
cactus. A spur of the arch proper rests in the edge 
of the sea. The flashes of spray, where the comb- 



152 



Isles in Slimmer Seas 




ers hit the glistening rocks, were shot through with 
all the colors of the rainbow. It is a drop of forty 
feet or more from the top of this spur into the curl- 
ing foam. Out beyond are coral islets, far as the 
eye can see. Those near at hand are girdled with 
white. One in particular, round as a disk, is 
called the "dinner table." In the shadow of the 
arch all is loose sand, gray white, and soft to the 
foot as flour. Northward, a broad white beach 
extends to the bold cliff where the rocks begin at 
Castle Point. 

The scene unfolded to us was no 

new thing to Captain S , but to 

otu- eyes it was a wonderful work of 
Nature, the result of the steady pro- 
cess of erosion through imnumbered 
centuries. The Artist tmlimbered 
his sketch-pad and stool, seeking 
a favorable point of vantage for his 
work. Sand and sea were in\4ting, 



-.V' 



Beautiful Bermuda 153 

so I removed my shoes and stockings. Turning 
my trousers up to the knees, I wandered down 
into the surf. Presently I went back for Cap- 
tain S . He, too, was barefooted, standing 

poised on one leg before the Artist. In a round 
full voice he sang this bit of a barrack song: 

"And the soldier said 
To his wooden leg — 
Bye, bye, bon soir! 
Tra, la la! tralala!" 

He was in an unusually jolly humor. Gleefully 
we raced each other up the beach to the big cliff. 
Its massive bulk rose a full one hundred and fifty 
feet above the sea that surged a fathom deep at 
its base. The southern cliff was seamed with 
great rifts running into a big black cavern that 
appeared about half way up its face. You could 
look straight up to where trees overhung the top, 
but the big wonder in it lay in the black, centu- 
ries-old cave. 



154 



Isles in Summer Seas 




"Has it a name?" I asked. 

"St. David's folk call it 'Nick's Cave'," said 
the Captain. 

Even with my limited knowl- 
edge of the Captain I knew that 
behind this short answer there 
lay more — a stor^^, perhaps. I was 
right, but I had to fairly dig the 
facts out of him to get it. Shorn 
of the rough phrases and loosely 
handled English, it was a tale that 
held a great deal of human inter- 
est. I'll give the gist of it here. 

The Tale of Nick 

^v Nick of the Cave, in the days 

when men knew him — a himdred 
years or more ago — ^u^as a St. David's Isl- 
ander, possessed with the idea that somewhere 
along the rude coast south of Castle Point lay 



Beaiitifiil Bermuda 155 

the buried treasure of the Spanish pirates. 
Years of life as a beach-comber and wrecker had 
shown him that the nub of land at Castle 
Point, combining with Pear Rocks, caused a shift 
in the current, or a tidal drift that carried the sea's 
burdens over the narrow inlet, against the wall of 
the cliff and so along the broad beach at Tucker's 
Town. 

In the days when ''Nick of the Cave" was 
young, the Islanders were more keen after the 
Spanish treasure than of late years. The lust for 
the chests of plate folklore described as having 
been landed by the wrecked Spanish ship's crew 
kept alive the search on Cooper's Island and 
sharpened the wits of the adventurous lads who 
grew up with the hero of the tale. In the early 
period of the hunt, '' Nick of the Cave " fell in love 
with Betsy Smith, a St. David's girl. He was one 
of six suitors, and, by all accounts, the least 
favored of any by Miss Betty. She, according to 



156 Isles in Summer Seas 

the St on", was a maid of tender heart. Moreover, 
she seemed not in a hurr>" to make any choice of 
a husband. It is related that she called about her 
the several insistent swains and made them privy 
to her mind on the matter. In the story it is made 
to appear that the existence of the Spanish treas- 
ure on the bleak east coast was revealed to Betty 
in a dream. Its exact location was hidden, nor 
had she a knowledge, even from dream soiirces, 
as to what part of the tide-washed land held it 
secret, except that somewhere north of the Nat- 
ural Arch to Cooper's Island the spoil lay hidden. 
Having explained this much to the men about her, 
she declared it was her resolve to marr>' no man 
save he who should find all or part of the pirate 
hoard, that had been for two hundred years the 
end and aim of private search. It is on record, in 
the story as given to me, that one by one Betty's 
suitors lost heart and dropped out of the race, in 
the several weary years that followed. Each 



Beautiful Bermuda 157 

made unavailing efforts to induce the maid to 
remove the condition. All save Nicholas Bean 
retired disgraced, in the eyes of the girl, by their 
faint-hearted efforts. The cooling of Love's flame 
in the hopeless task was, naturally, distressingly 
rapid in the eyes of the spirited maiden. 

There came a day when Nick, sore of foot and 
racked of brain, repaired to the home of Betty and 
declared he was in despair of fulfilling the condi- 
tion. She ridiculed his despair, sturdily flinging 
his want of enterprise and lack of perseverance in 
his face. 

"Nick Bean," said she, "an' thou durst look 
in my face again without the treasure, I withdraw 
the condition and my hand as well!" 

Betty was a maid of great determination, albeit 
a cruel one to Nick. As it was, her manner and 
evident faith in the dream of treasure fired Nick's 
blood. It was then he vowed resolutely: 

"By thy condition I abide. See, Betty! I look 



158 Isles in Sii}}ii)icr Seas 

no more on thy face, save I return with the pirate 
gold. This I make as my final vow!" 

He kissed the tips of her fingers and fortli\\*ith 
entered upon his search. The story has it, he then 
began the study of the lidal How and took up his 
abode in the caveni of the cliii", on the north of 
Tucker's ToT\-n beach. He was seen no more on 
St. Da\-id's. Now and then in after years a lish- 
cnnan, stonn-stressed on the Castle Harbor side 
of Castle Pohit, would catch a fleeting view of an 
old man, half naked, \^'ith flowing mikcmpt hair 
and beard, in the cedar thickets on Castle Nob. 
Old men, when the\- heard of these strange 
glimpses, • would recall the vow of Nick. The 
strange part of the story is to come. 

Betty, hearing nothing from the man she had 
driven away, tired of lonely maidenhood, had 
married. Her son, in quest ot stray goats, wan- 
dered to Castle Point and bc}-ond. He reached 
the big cliff and was tmiiing back, when the trem- 



Beautiful Bermuda 159 

ulous bleat of a kid came to his ears. He looked 
over the edge. Down on a shelf of rock at the 
mouth of the Cave, he saw a small goat, badly- 
crippled. He lowered himself by means of a rope 
and there, in the entrance to the cave, he found 
Nick— dead! 

In the story are brought prominently to the fore 
the constancy of man and the inconstancy of a 

woman. Captain S pointed this feature out 

to me, only, of course, he expressed it differently. 
In the walk back to the Natural Arch, he ex- 
plained the tidal flow down the coast and the 
heavy undertow that swept off toward the coral 
reefs, a half mile out. We were loafing along down 

by the surf when Captain S with a swift look 

toward the Arch cried: 

"Look, me lad! Ladies — or I'm a blinkin' 
shrimp!" 

I looked. He was right. There were six or 



i6o 



Isles in Summer Seas 



more under the Arch. One was standing beside 
the Artist, Several men lay about on the sand. 
No need for me to be told that the party was made 








^ 



up of tourists and that we had met before. That 
girl with the Artist could be no other than Miss 

G , she whom we called the "Love Well" 

damsel. There was the Brewer from Flatbush, 



Beautiful Bermuda i6i 

U. S. A.; Baldy of the Ship; George and 
Grade. 

Bare of feet and legs as we were Captain S 

towed me among the little crowd. The Artist 
was in fine fettle and poked a good deal of fun at 
me, as I doffed my hat to the laughing salutation 
of Miss G , who exclaimed : 

"I wouldn't have missed this visit to the Arch 
for anything in the world! Isn't it queer and, oh! 
so much grander than Walsingham!" 

I made a suitable reply, then introduced Cap- 
tain S . She bowed stiffly in acknowledg- 
ment. Not a bit abashed because of his state of 
undress, the Captain launched forth in praise of 
Tucker's Town Beach. He repeated the story, as 
I have set it down, of Nick of the Cave. 

"Oh, how sad!" cried Miss G . ''I must 

see that place ! " 

I grinned behind my hand. Here was a job for 
the Artist. He fell into it, as a grouper takes bait. 



1 62 Isles in Summer Seas 

We watched them go down the beach. The Cap- 
tain's comment was: 

" 'Tis a fine sHp of a maid!" 

I said nothing. Traveling heavily, the Brewer's 
wife came puffing along the sand. "Don't look 
like the beach at Coney Island!" she panted. 

The Brewer, puffing even harder with his weight 
of fat, fell on the sand beside her, muttering : " No, 
it don't— not half like it!" 

We left them to fight it out and passed Baldy 
of the Ship, stretched out in the shade of the 
Arch, smoking, but bored to death with the 

whole thing. Captain S jerked his thumb 

toward the prostrate figure. 

"Mind you, me lad, I know him not; but I lay 
a crown piece to a penny this bit of blinkin' scen- 
ery is nothin' to 'im." 

We walked in a narrow foot path to the top of 
the Arch. Here we sat for a space, while the mind 
of Captain S ran riot with the lonely majesty 



Beautiful Bermuda 163 

of the wide sea. There were things he couldn't 
explain in the big scheme of life and the wild 
rough way of Nature. He told of many tempest- 
uous nights; the finding of drowned men on the 
surf -ridden beaches. Once he found a sailor dead 
on the wide sloping beach south of the Arch on 
Paynter's Vale shore. There had been no wreck 
in weeks prior to the finding of the body and he 
speculated often on the disaster that had 
befallen the man. Here it was he fell into 
verse — not his own, but another's — bearing 
on the tragedy: 

"This came to pass: the sky grew dark, 

A wondrous wind swept o 'er the sea. 
And rude waves smote a laboring bark, 

And roared like fiends in revelry. 
Then loud above the creaking spars. 

The furious hell of storm 's discord, 
A cry rang out that sought the stars, 

The frenzied cry, ' Man overboard ! ' 



164 Isles in Summer Seas 

The beetling seas bore hard behind, 

Their summits capped with gUstening foam; 
And screaming furies in the wind 

Forbade the ship in 'stays' to come; 
And bobbing there within the deep, 

The rushing waters in his ears, 
The man essayed to cUmb the steep, 

The vast and yielding hemispheres. 

And there he swam alone with death; 

Beneath the water sobbing slips; 
How fiercely drawn his quick'ning breath 

Between his bloodless lips! 
And lo! like one who views the past 

Sweet vistas soon to be forsook, 
He turns his head and for a last 

Heart broken lingering look. 



A sun-kissed stretch of yellow sand, 
A dimpling waste of sunUt sea. 

That lately roared when Wizard's wand 
Disturbed the Simimer harmony. 



Beautiful Bermuda 165 

A ravaged form there, dark and still, 
Unmoved, unknown, forsook, forgot; 

Yet once it braved the tempest's will, 
Creature of circumstance — or what? " 

I looked the Captain over as he recited. There 
was a depth of feeling in the emphasis put upon 
the closing lines that led me to believe I had 
underestimated the man. Here in mid- Atlantic, 
life is a word written in the rude free hand of open 
air where Boreas, pipes the tune and sentiment is 
a force finding expression in cruder form. I had 
not imagined this side to our careless Captain. 

With the sun now well at otir backs, we watched 
the tourist party below. There were George and 
Grade, sitting out on a lonely stone pile, holding 
hands; no doubt talking and planning the future, 
or, maybe, just sitting in foolish bliss. A little way 
off, behind the Arch, a girl with a camera was 
snapshotting the Brewer. Far down the beach the 
Artist and his companion were strolling leisurely 



165 



/oc7^,y in Summer S.\:s 



hack, be pointiag seaward to ib? coffal reeis, in 
e\TdeiiT : :?n of the mx-sienes in their 

fonnarion. C.^.tain S- 







san. Tlse win 



d had shifted and, moreover, 
lind it. He r.imei :o me 






Beautiful Bermuda 167 

Three Sisters, I'm thiiikin'. We must \mny yon 
couple." 

He bellowed through his hands. The Artist 
heard the call, but there was no appreciable mend- 
ing of the pace. When the pair finally reached 
the Arch, the Artist had half made up his mind to 
ride back with the tourist part}^. This he con- 
veyed in a hint to Captain S . The words of 

the latter lacked encouragement. 

"You came with me, my lad, an' back 3'ou go 
in my company ! " 

This settled it; the Artist was perforce obliged 
to acquiesce. He made his explanation to Aliss 

G and the Guide of her partj^ came to life 

from a hollow luider the Arch, called the scattered 
members together, and made ready to depart. 
He and Baldy of the Ship had a word or two in 
private. At length, lighting the cigar that indi- 
vidual had given him, he annoimced: 

"The carriages await us at Paj-nter's Vale. 



1 68 Isles in Summer Seas 

c _ 

There is room in them for no more than they 
brought. Hurry up, now." 

Gracie and George crawled off the rock and 
followed in the wake of the party along the sandy 
way. Baldy of the Ship looked back, with the 
cigar in his mouth, and grinned until the act 
appeared like a facial contortion. When he turned 
his back a handkerchief fluttered for a moment 
in a little white hand. 

This signal was answered from the Arch. 

Tim was fast asleep in the cockpit of the dinghy 
as she lay half her length on the flat beach. His 
head rested on the demijohn; a half filled glass 
stood at his elbow. He was not drunk — only 
drowsy. After the Captain stirred him up with 
physical force and invective, he became quite 
active. In explanation of the circumstance of the 
half beached dinghy he dropped "hs" all over the 
place, but he worked like a horse with the rest of 
us to get her off. By that time the sun was half 



Beautiful Bermuda 



169 



way down the western slope and the tide was very- 
low. There was, moreover, little wind. What 
there was came from a point west-sou'-west. This 
meant a series of tacks across the harbor and a 
careful picking of the way among the coral. Cap- 
tain S grew quite rough with Tim, as if this 

individual were responsible for the falling tide and 
changing wind. As he sculled from the cove into 
open water he ''blasted" this and "blasted" that 
with a prodigious show of temper and ill himior. 

Out in the open we made better progress than 
was thought possible at the start. The Artist 
manned the main sheet, Tim stood at the jib stay, 
on the lookout for hidden reefs, while I was made 
master of the centerboard haul. We 
had turned for a stretch south on the 
short tack, before the Captain thought 
of the beer. 

"Fill me a beaker, me lad, an' I'll 
give ye a song." 




170 



/5/<?i^ iti Summer Seas 




^ 



m 









V3 



I Kftcd the jtig, and poitred out a three quarter 

glass. It cxMitained no more. Lucky for Tim he 

stood so tar be\-ond the reach of 

the Captain's ann. 

"Tim, ye hibberl" he \-elled. 

Ye hEnkin'' guwder, I warn ye, 

I warn ye!'" Then to \is: "Now, 

"0 lads, we're small on drink, 

but we'ie mates all an' eadi gets 

his share." 

He measured the glass for a 
third and drank; then passed it 
on. I was the last and got rather less than 
more fear my pcation. There was silence for 
some mcKnents, What I took for a period of 
brooding over the sehSshness of Tim was really 
no more than a pat^e to enable the Captain to get 
hk bearings on a song. 

He gave us "The Admiral^s Whip", that defi- 
ant British sailor's song, reciting the e^qdoits c^ 



Beautiful Bermuda 171 



Drake when Ik; 1)(;.'i,1, Mu; Diil.olniirin, V.-m Tromp, 
rind mado^ood hi;; |H,a,;;l, l,o wliij) 1,1 k; sea, of iJiil.ch- 
iiK^ii and Uk; bi-oom. On the ucxL luj) w<; lisLcncd 
to a sailor's love sonj^, which \)C^an: 

"The sun may ;;liiii(> l,liroii;^li ;i Lonrlon foj^, 

The Thames run lirij'jil, ;iji(| clc-u-, 
The Ocean's brint; in.iy Ijirn l.o wine, 

ICrn I forj^cl, my dear. 
ICrc I ((lyyy.l my dear, my Iioy;;, 

Where the dancing dcjlphins play, 
Anr] 1,h(! shrimps and the sharks 

An; 'a,vin' their larks, 
Ten tlujusand miles away!" ■ 



CHAPTER IX 

Y that time the short twiHght had 
merged into dusk. We were in 
shallow, reef-strewn water. The 
warning scrape of the center- 
board on the shoal interrupted 
the Captain's song. Under his 
orders I grabbed the haiil and fell 
over into the cockpit, with a half 
length of wire rope in my hands. It had parted 

somewhere in the well! Captain S shoved 

the tiller hard over and we slipped into deep 
water. We could feel the board drop its length 
out of the well. 

"Now, me lads," said Captain S , "we've 

a ticklish bit o' sailin' to do in this blinkin' 'arbor, 




172 



Beautiful Bermuda 173 



afore we make St. Georges. Two of you pass a 
rope forrad under her bows an' haul it aft — that 
centerboard must come up!" 

The Artist and I did as ordered. Then ensued 
a deal of hauling. It wasn't long before we found 
the board jammed fast at the bottom of the well. 
When this discovery was made we were abreast 
of Three Sister Islands, in a tideway that raced 
over the coral with a sputtering gurgle. The 

wind was dead ahead and Captain S was 

sculling frantically to get through the narrow 
channel. We made the cut in half an hour. At 
the Stocks it was dark. In this coral-strewn pas- 
sage a gust of wind caught the sail; the boom 
swung over, catching me full on the chest and in 
a frightful list we raced head on a reef and stuck 
fast. In the ensuing exciting moments, I was 
blamed for the mishap — if I had not been in the 

way of the shifting sail, Captain S said, we 

had a good chance to clear the blinkin' reef. Why 



174 



Isles in Summer Seas 



didn't I duck the boom shift? There was a deal 
more to what he said, but that was what it 
amounted to in the end. 

We were fast in the dark and the tide was drop- 
ping steadily. Oiu" Captain was exceedingly 



^^^__< 




strong in his expressions. He kicked off his shoes 
and outer garments and a few seconds later stood 
before us in Nature's garb. Then he issued a few 
orders and slipped over the side in a glow of phos- 
phorescence. The water was waist deep. In it 



Beautiful Bermuda 175 

he ducked to get a look at the keel and center- 
board. He was down for a long while. When he 
came up, blowing like a grampus, he swore 
roundly: 

''The blinkin' board's fast as nails!" 
In the dull light I looked across at the Artist. 
He, too, was stripped. A big splash over the side 
told me he had followed the Captain. The latter 
waded to the bow, lifted the anchor and, with 
this in his arms, ploughed ahead into the dark- 
ness, the length of the cable. There was a sudden 
flare of phosphorescence as he plunged the grap- 
pling and wedged it tightly between the coral 
rocks. We marked his retiirn to us by the play 
of fire in the water about his body. Under in- 
structions, Tim and I braced oiirselves on the 
deck and pulled swiftly on the cable, at a 

signal from Captain S , who with the 

Artist, was under the stern pushing with might 
and main. 



176 Ish-s in Summer Seas 

" 'Eave the bliiikiii' boar!" coninianded our 
skipper. 




It was noticed that we gained a little, but the 
anchor lost grip on the coral and drew back 
toward us. After this had happened se\-eral times, 



Beautiful Bermuda 177 

Tim lost his temper and swore disconnectedly. 
He dropped a good many "hs" also. Captain 

S went forward many times with the anchor 

and repeatedly wedged it deep in the coral. After 
each trip he became more rude in his language; 
his Yorkshire accent broader. Tim was a Lon- 
doner and his speech was thoroughly seasoned 
with strange idioms and Cockney dialect. I sug- 
gested, during a pause in our labors on the deck, 
that he strip and join the other two over the side. 
I felt he was looking me over for a long minute. 

"Hexcuse me, but fer wot I know to the con- 
trary the bloomin' 'Arbor may be a mess o' 
wrigglin' sharks. I'm content to 'cave 'ere. 
You're welkim to a try!" 

The Artist said little, only occasionally he 
would pass a remark my way not entirely com- 
plimentary. Away up in the north we could 
dimly see the pale lights of the town, but only 
the noise we made broke the stillness. After a 



1/8 Isles in Slimmer Seas 

while — it seemed hours — we slipped off the reef. 
Piiffing and blowing, the two watermen climbed 

on board and Captain S , all nude as he was, 

asstmied the tiller. After that it was a long reach 
away from the land into deep water. No one 
said an^-thing. The Artist soon finished dressing 

and reHeved Captain S at the helm. In as 

nice a tone as I could command, I asked: 

"Is there anything I can do?" 

Captain S paused a moment in the act of 

pulling on his shirt. 

"Notablinkin'thing!" 

"You might lie dowTi fiat in the bottom of the 
boat when we 'bout ship and keep out of the way 
of the boom!" said the Artist. 

"Right you are, me lad!" echoed the Captain. 

Under the circumstances I kept very quiet. I 
had no desire to provoke either of them. When 
we made the dock at the Square, the dinghy was 
left in charge of Tim. I couldn't help it so I made 



Beautiful Bermuda 179 



the remark that, " It was a fearsome trip to Tuck- 
er's Town, over Castle Harbor, in a small boat!" 

Captain S looked at me swiftly in the dark. 

''You knew it not, me lad, but we were in 
proper straits had the wind held!" 

Back in the bar at the Inn we helped him assim- 
ilate a Scotch and soda. It proved not to be a 
long seance, for the Artist seemed anxious to break 
up the party. 

At table in the dining room, the Artist appeared 
considerably spruced up. Thomas was less def- 
erential than usual, but seemed to have a good 
deal on his mind; moreover, he was filled with ill- 
repressed excitement. Contrary to his wont, the 
Artist was not talkative. I couldn't get a single 

rise out of him, so I told K , who came over 

to our table, aU about the raging Castle Harbor, 
the shipwreck and the "wrigglin' mess o' sharks" 
Tim feared. He looked at me doubtfully and to 
this day I think he believed me. We were tre- 



i8o Isles in Summer Seas 

mendously hungry and made qtiick work of the 
highly satisfying meal. This pleased Thomas, 
who was in e\ddent haste to see us served. It 
dawned upon us later that his excitement was due 
to the attraction of the Cakewalk in the Town 
Hall, for we were informed that he had been 
selected to lead the revel. 

Mrs. K , in the parlor of the Inn, was seem- 
ingly relieved to know that we were safe and 
sound. Our late retiun had worried her greatly, 
she said. At this I was forced to laugh discord- 
antly. The playing up of dangers in Castle Har- 
bor was getting almost monotonous. I even went 
so far as to put into expression some of my 
thoughts on the matter. There was then a change 
of subject. The Artist seemed a bit abstracted 
and vague. He listened to Mrs. K 's descrip- 
tion of arrangements for the Cakewalk, inform- 
ing us that Thomas had chosen for a partner 
Hazel, one of the dusky maids in the Inn. She 



Beautiful Bermuda i8i 

said the affair was not likely to be patronized by 
any ladies of the town, since it was entirely a 
tourist function. 

In the Town Hall the lights from many oil 
lamps about the walls shed a smoky glow over 
the moving forms scattered on the floor, on the 
rows of tourists and on the masculine contingent 
seated in chairs along each side of the big room. 
Looking down upon the scene were the pictures 
of the several mayors of St. Georges. There was 
a raised platform at one end and, in the center, 
near the edge, stood a small table. On this, tailor 
fashion, sat the lone musician, a wiry little negro, 
very black and wrinkled. Near the stairway 
leading down to the entrance there was a bank 
of colored people making ready to enter the dance. 
I took the first vacant chair at hand, but the Art- 
ist wormed his way among the dancers to the 

platform under which sat Miss G and others 

of the tourist party. She had watched for his 



1 82 Isles in Summer Seas 

coming, no doubt, and smiled beamingly upon 
him, as she made room for him to wedge a chair 
closely beside her. 

To me this sort of thing seemed less amusing 
than annoying. I had rallied him about Cupid, 
the toils and that sort of thing, but he had given 
me scant attention. He said it was his affair — 
not mine. In short, he had given me to under- 
stand that it was none of my business. Looking 
up the hall, in the smoky light of the place, I rea- 
lized that it certainly was none of my business. 
That potion, at Lunn's Well, had done the trick 
and it was working like any m5^hical witch's 
brew. I resolved from that moment to maintain 
a policy of non-interference. The girl — she was 
probably along in the twenties — was not without 
some native wit. She had, besides, a pleasant, 
piquant face, fringed with a lot of fluffy, auburn 
hair. This added a certain vivacity to her fea- 
tures that was most charming. 



Beautiful Bermuda 183 

Hers was an accidental intrusion into our com- 
pany. I reflected sagely that probably she and 
her friends would move on in a day or so and 
leave us to oiu- work. I picked out Baldy of the 
Ship near her and speculated idly upon the part 
he might play as the rival of the Artist. Looking 
him over I noticed a tall, lanky youth leaning 
against the platform, a little to the right of the 
Artist. The face seemed familiar, but it was a 
full minute before I remembered him as the slim 
chap who drank from the ''Love Well" at the 
pretty girl's bidding. Then he made a grimace, 
but now the expression of his face was painfully 
set and stern. His manner of looking at the Art- 
ist was scowling and ferocious. Things were get- 
ting to be a bit interesting, and I laughed softly 
to myself as I thought of the evident complica- 
tions in the situation. 

In the midst of these reflections a sea-faring 
man forced his way up the stairs and came breez- 



i84 



Isles in Sunimcr Seas 




ily into the hall. Ho was a stranger from a brig- 
ant ine. anehored in distress otf the North Shore. 
He Im-ehed treniblii^gU- into a seat at the head of 
the stairs, among the blacks. That 
he had reached the Tovm Hall by 
\Na\- of Riun Alley was very evi- 
dent. He had been seated a few 
nni\utes when Hazel, of the Inn, 
gorgeously arrawxi for the festive 
occasion, entered. The sailor, 
with an elephantit\e bow, ollered her his seat, 
sajTng: 

"Ship ahoy, Kitty! how are you?" 
An attendant promptly shoved the sailor back 
into his seat. Another colored maid came romid 
the head of the stairs and the sailor tried to cm- 
brace her. The attendant ptilled hun away, but 
the sailor retaliated b>- blacking his e>e and split- 
ting his lip. There was instant uproar and com- 
motion. He was hauled down the stairs by fifty 



Beautiful Bermuda 185 



or more willing hands. Following sundry sober- 
ing kicks, he was headed up the Alley and allowed 
to study navigation back to the North Shore and 
his ship. Great as was the excitement, it did not 
break up the dance. I returned to find the Artist 

and Miss G in the mazes of a waltz, with the 

fiddler on his stand playing in a rapidly increas- 
ing tempo. There were a score of couples on the 
floor, chiefly tourists. This went on for an hour 
or more, but the exertions of the day, together 
with the steady drone of the music, proved en- 
tirely too much for me. Tired out at last I fell 
sound asleep in my chair. 

Some one touched me on the arm. I heard a 
sympathetic voice say: ''Poor fellow! he must 
be very tired after all the excitement of the trip." 
I looked up sleepily into a pair of laughing eyes 
and managed somehow to pull myself together. 
It was Miss G and the Artist. 

"Who won?" I asked confusedly. 



1 86 Isles in Summer Seas 

"Oh, the Cakewalk!" said the girl, laughing. 
"It isn't over yet." There were two couples on 
the floor, Thomas and Hazel, a buxom wench 
from the St. Georges and a wiry little darkey from 
Hamilton. All four were hot and perspiring, but 
game. They moved about with lagging limbs 
and set, determined faces. Once Hazel lost step, 
but Thomas pulled her into shape. So it went on 
for another hour. It was at this juncture that 
the Artist's rival bumped sleepily against the 
musician's table, upset it and stopped the music. 
This interruption brought the walk to an a;brupt 
end. 

"The stupid thing!" said Miss G , refer- 
ring, of course, to the lanky youth. 

"I shoiild say so!" echoed the Artist. 

I did not see the Artist come into our room that 
morning. It must have been very early. I had 
heard the last of the merrymakers cross the 
Square from the Town Hall and fallen asleep to 



Beautiful Bermuda 



187 



the music of a chorused song containing the catch 
line ending with "Beautiful Bermuda". At 
breakfast the Arxist was morose and uncommu- 
nicative. I looked for some humor from him 
concerning the bedraggled appearance of Thomas. 
This individual was an object for our compassion, 
inasmuch as he had great difficidty in keeping his 
eyes open long enough to note our directions for 
food. At one time he rested his hand on the table 
and> leaning his weight heavily upon it, slept 
soundly for a minute. When he moved away his 
feet clung to the floor as if he walked over a glued 
siuface. Ordinarily these actions 
would have evoked some merriment 
from my companion. It was appar- 
ent he did not even observe them, 
being occupied with other thoughts. 

"You finished late last night," I 
said. 

"I did," he replied. This was 




i88 



Isles in Summer Seas 



not encouraging. I walked to the window 
and looked over into the Square. There 
was a fisherman crossing from the dock and 
he was carrying a big fish half as tall as 




himself. I told the Artist I had seen our break- 
fast coming, but this did not liven him up much. 
In due course Thomas served us. An hour later 
we stood on the shore at Tobacco Rocks, with a 
brigantine in the oflfing at anchor. The Artist 



Beautiful Bermuda 



189 



sketched in the scene and became conversational, 
but made no reference to the matter of the girl. 
We followed the shore around to Tiger's Head 






» 



N^V»'' 



a'-«v^ 



, ^^- ^ M' 







■r-<' 









and Fort Catherine. Here he made two more 
sketches. The rugged beauty of Tobacco Rocks 
and the Tiger's Head held both of us captive. 



1 90 



Isles in Summer Seas 



The limestone pinnacles of Tobacco Rocks stood 
out sharply in the morning glow. Flashes of spray- 
glistened in the simlight as the waves hit the 
rocks and gurgled and moaned in the caves tmder 




the cliffs. These rocks shelter the bay and while, 
on the inside, the water was tranquil there was a 
foaming surf out against the opposing walls. It 
was a lonely, majestic scene. For a long time we 
lay on the slope wrapped in the deep and age-old 



Beautiful Bermuda 191 

mystery, nowhere so impenetrable as where seas 
forever war against the land. 

We were on the military reservation and pres- 
ently followed the straggling roads back to the 
airy barracks of the Royal Artillery. Farther 
along, we passed the parade ground and, later, 
the military church. We climbed the slope to 
Fort Victoria, resting at the water catches called 
the Naval Tanks. This is the traditional landing 
place of Captain Ord's crew. 




CHAPTER X 

T is a matter of record in my notes that at 
this particular stage of our trip its biggest 
surprise was suddenly sprung upon me. At 
the noon hour I was idly smoking in front 
of the Inn, listening to a knot of darkies 
seated aroimd the flagstaff chatting and 
joking with one another on the performance 
at the Cakewalk the night before. One of the 
group was the attendant who had encountered 
the sailor's fist in the melee. He was explaining 
the matter at length. I was laughing at the ex- 
planation when the Artist walked up to me. 
"We take the stage in an hour for Hamilton." 
I looked him over in stupid amazement. 
"What's wrong?" I managed to bltu^t out. 



192 



Beautiful Bermuda 193 



"Wrong? There's nothing wrong. We— you 
and I— are simply going to experience a change 
of scene. Hamilton, I am told, is extremely inter- 
esting, and the neighboring islands are hA\ of 
excellent sketch material. There isn't anything 
to prevent our coming back here if we like." 
I was still looking at him. 
"Come on, " he said peevishly, "we won't argue 
the matter. I have arranged ever5rthing, know- 
ing you would not care." 

But I did care, and, furthermore, we did argue 
the matter— and at length. I objected strenu- 
ously to being hauled about at his convenience, 
but when I saw he was fixed in his determination 
I gave in. He gave no explanation that was at 
all satisfactory to me. Merely seeing points of 
interest around Hamilton was a lame excuse; 
certainly there must be more behind the move- 
but what? 

This was the question still on my mind when 



194 /.^/e^ in Summer Seas 

Bill of the Stage landed us in the town late in the 
afternoon. Most of the unattached dogs that 
made their homes in the Market Square at St. 
Georges had followed us up York Street, beyond 
the turn at Mvdlet Bay; two of them even es- 
corted us into Hamilton itself. The Artist, who 
seemed to be in fine fettle, in spite of my ill humor, 
had selected a hostelry on Queen Street. As the 
porter carried in our luggage Bill of the Stage 
said: 

"Knowed you gentlemen 'ud git wet on the 
trip to the Nateral Arch yesterday!" 

There seemed little in the observation to pro- 
voke mirth, yet Bill laughed hugely and rolled his 
eyes. I replied warmly: 

"Now, look here. Bill. You and more folk like 
you have had heaps of fim at our expense. Be- 
lieve me, it's time to forget it." 

He was still looking at me as I entered the 
hotel. 




Beautiful Bermuda 



195 



That night there came into our lives an indi- 
vidual who has left his impress clearly defined, 
and who for a brief space, at least, contributed 
something of interest to oiu" ramble. I met him 




in Queen Street, in front of the museum of the 
Bermuda Natiiral History Society; he came to 
me as I smoked a pipe against the wall, imder the 
wide-spreading branches of the famous rubber 
tree — ^planted sixty years ago, a sapling from 



196 Isles in Summer Seas 

Essequibo, British Guiana. The Artist was some- 
where up the street in the care of a real barber. 
I was aware of someone with his hat off, bowing 
and scraping on the ill-conditioned pavement at 
that spot. I glanced up and saw a colored gentle- 
man of indefinite age. He was black as the orig- 
inal sin, but his featiu-es bore the stamp of intel- 
ligence, combined with an air of studious reserve. 
I looked him over carefully in the half light and 
nodded by way of greeting. It was a custom of 
the Islands. Thus encouraged he stepped for- 
ward. 

"Spec you don't know it, but folks here calls 
me the Oracle of the Main, 'cause I knows all 'bout 
these Islan's — how to get to 'em an' the hist'ry 
of 'em." 

This looked promising, so I said: "Indeed!" 
in a noncommittal tone. Then he went on : " Yes, 
Bill, the driver of the St. Georges stage, said he 
had brought you and a friend over a while ago. 



Beautiful Bermuda 197 

He p'inted you out at the hotel. 'Dan,' he says, 
'one of them's an artist, an' he's wastin' his time 
for he don't know where to go an' see things inter- 




estin'. You'll do him a good turn by takin' him 
an' his friend in hand. You're the man that can 
do it', says Bill. " 



198 Isles in Summer Seas 

My friend in ebony paused suggestively. 

"That was good of Bill," I said. 

"Yes," he replied; "but Bill is that way. So 
I says aU right. Bill, I'll take 'em both in hand — 
an' here I am. " 

And that is how it came about that Dan, the 
Oracle of the Main, became a third member of 
our party. The final ceremony was not completed 
until the Artist had looked the Oracle over and 
we had arranged the terms upon which he con- 
sented to act as our personal guide and instructor. 
We were to leave everjrthing to him, even to the 
matter of compensation. This item was finally 
adjusted on a satisfactory basis — to Dan. Up in 
our room that night the Artist seemed a little 
dubious about the newly admitted member of 
our party. He said three people out of five he 
had asked concerning the Oracle denied they 
knew him. The other two had only faint recol- 
lections regarding him. 



Beautiful Bermuda 



199 



"Yet," said he, "Dan seems a truthM fellow. 
If we find he is not up to his own estimate, it will 
be easy enough to throw him over. " 

We ate breakfast in a hurry the next morning, 
for news was brought to us that Dan was waiting 
in the street. He was better to look at in the day- 
light. There seemed more fit to his clothes, and 
more style to his salutation. 

In the night the Artist had mapped out our 
itinerary for the day. This took in a good many 
points of interest about Hamilton, ending with a 
visit to Cathedral Rocks, in Sandys' Parish, over 
in Somerset. He was particular about Cathedral 
Rocks, other points being more or less incidental. 
The matter was laid before Dan, who shook his 
head. 

"We'll have to take a carriage to do all that," 
he said. 

"All right," said the Artist, "we'll take one 
then." 




200 



Isles m Summer Seas 



And we did. The vehicle Dan secured was an 
ancient trap, much the worse for wear, to which 
was attached a mule, so tough in places that he 
seldom flinched when the whip came in contact 




with his hide. We discovered that the outfit be- 
longed to a relative of Dan's and that the beast 
answered to the name of Job. We over-ruled a 
suggestion that we take along a lad — one of Dan's 
relatives — to drive Job. This lad followed us up 
the hill to the Cathedral, Hamilton's most inter- 
esting structure. It is a Gothic edifice and is the 



Beautiful Bermuda 201 



rival of any ecclesiastical pile, so far as beauty- 
goes, this side of Europe. In its making stones 
were brought from England, United States and 
Nova Scotia and these have been blended with 
Caen and native limestone. The Cathedral was 
begun in 1885, but is not yet completed. Its chief 
distinctive featiire is the massive tower, with bat- 
tlemented parapet and pinnacles. In our recol- 
lections of the place these stand out with partic- 
ular prominence. 

For some unexplained reason, Dan appeared 
disinclined to linger about the Cathedral so, 
after the Artist had made a sketch in outline, 
Job was forced to move. Dan's small relative 
stood in the roadway, keeping back the tears by 
a prodigious use of his hands and shirt sleeves. 
Oiir way led out toward Paget, at the head of 
Crows Lane — a fanciful name given to that part 
of the harbor. It was here that Job got his 
second resting spell, while the Artist sketched 



202 



Isles in Summer Seas 



the royal palms at Pembroke Hall. These trees 
stand almost on the water's edge, serenely majes- 
tic in their stately alignment. Dan said they had 
been there ever since Governor Henry Hamilton 




gave his name to the town in 1790. He told us 
that Hamilton succeeded St. Georges as the seat 
of government in 181 5. The Oracle spoke dis- 
paragingly of the Town Cut proposition at the 
northern end of the Islands. He was still talking 



Beautiful Bermuda 



203 



of the doomed ambitions of the St. Georges 
folks when we entered Paget. Here Job unex- 
pectedly responded to the persuasive appeal of 
the whip and actually ran down the hills to Hun- 
gry Bay. Dan described the scenery here, 




telling us something of the wild commotion when 
nature is in her stormy moods. It was a calm 
day with the wind southeast and the boilers, 
or coral atolls, were frothing in a weird, fascinating 
manner. Each boiler is a circular cup, with a rim 
of foam around the edge. The stirf beat in over 



2o4 Isles in Summer Seas 

these obstructions and foamed in the caves and 
hollows at the head of the bay. The inlet gets 
its name from the fact that the tidal rush has a 
subterranean outlet, so that the immense force 
of the waves creates a suction which carries 
wreckage in large quantities over the outer 
fringe of reef into the jaws of the caverns inside. 
At East Elbow Bay, Job secured another rest. 
To reach it we passed through some delightful 
scenery. This whole parish is thickly wooded; 
the vegetation along the way rich and luxuriant. 
We paused again at St. Paul's, the parish chtirch. 
Dan was strong on church lore and told us this 
edifice, or portions of it, dated back to 1796. 

The course laid out for Job took him where the 
going was a little heavy. In the sand hill section 
of Paget we lightened his load, by tramping 
beside the trap for a mile or more. The hills 
themselves proved more attractive to us than 
anything we had seen since Hungry Bay. The 



Beautiful Bermuda 205 

high sand mounds told us how all of Bermuda's 
hills were formed. The mounds we looked at lay 
well back from the coast line and are the work 
of the wind. The composition of the drifts is tiny- 
shells ground to powder by the action of the waves 
on the shore. In the exposed places the wind 
gathers the particles in the form of dust, drifting 
it among the imdergrowth and trees farther in- 
land. These obstructions hold the accimiulations 
and in time the dunes harden. Dan pointed out 
in one of the hills the chimney of a house peeping 
from the top. He said the structure had been 
buried thirty years. The destructive encroach- 
ment of the sand at this point appears to have 
been stopped, for the whole of the dimes are 
covered by trailing sea-side vines and bushes. In 
time, it is said, these dunes will harden into rock. 
Along the coast in Warwick Parish Job was 
given little opportunity to study natural scenery. 
The torpid beast was forced into a gallop down 



2o6 Isles in Summer Seas 

some of the small hills by the weight of the trap 
pressing upon him from behind. The land all 
through this parish is undulating, while along 
the South shore the coast is rugged. It was a 
two mile walk down the parish. Along the 
entire length deep scars have been made in the 
shore line by the rude force of the Atlantic surge. 
At Sinky Bay the Artist got busy with his art 
materials. This elliptical rim of sand is guarded 
by high brown cliffs, against which there was a 
fierce dash of spray from the barrier reefs. At 
Heron Bay we made a wide detour to avoid 
Warwick Camp. We were in the stray biillet 
zone and Dan said that the soldiers at the camp 
might be on practice; if so, he wouldn't like to 
risk Job's getting a half ounce of lead in him. If 
that happened, he said, we might have to walk 
back to Hamilton. Dan's solicitude for Job 
was most touching. The animal took the cross 
road. Meanwhile we came at length to the Khy- 



Beautiful Bermuda 



207 



ber Pass, the wonder spot of Warwick and the 
deepest canon in the Islands. It is a military 
cut and rather grim and forbidding in appearance. 
In it Job took fright at a small commotion up 




at the high point and actually ran a few yards 
again. Following this performance, he was 
allowed to rest while the Artist completed a 
picture of the Pass. 
At this place Dan offered his first suggestion 



2o8 Isles in Summer Seas 

on the trip since the royal palms. It was that 
we drive over to Port Royal and take the cross 
road to Gibb's Hill Lighthouse. This we did. 
Up to the present we had seen few people along 
the road. Now and then we had passed a native 
boy, or man. These had looked scowlingly at 
our company in the trap and then commiser- 
atingly at Job, torpid and toiling. We had 
gathered from these actions that they regarded 
Job as an over-worked beast, so on the way up 
to the lighthouse I suggested that we walk. 
I did this not so much out of compassion for 
Job, as because it looked more dignified to be 
afoot. Dan rode up the hill. 

We climbed to Bermuda's Answering Beacon — 
a matter of three hundred and sixty-two feet 
above high water. At the top we ran across 
several members of the tourist party we had met 
on the trip to St. David's a few days before. 
Among them were Gracie and George; the 



Beautiful Bermuda ' 209 

Brewer from Flatbush, U, S. A., and his wife. 
The latter was plaintive; bewailing the fact 
that she could never — never get down to earth 
again without assistance. The bridal couple 
were making a topographic survey of the low 
islands sprawling in great disorder in the Great 
Sound. George was snapping his camera in all 
directions. The Artist, with the Keeper of the 
lighthouse at his elbow, was getting information. 
He told us the height of the gallery from the 
concrete base is 105 feet nine inches. The light 
is a revolving flash, burning oil with an illuminat- 
ing power equal to 99,930 candles, and is visible 
twenty-seven miles in clear weather. He said 
it was lighted on May i, 1846, but a new lantern 
was installed in 1904. The Keeper was most 
interesting. He pointed out the parish church 
at St. Ann's by the sea, in the Port Royal dis- 
trict. He told us that the only music the con- 
gregation in that church had any use for in the 




210 Isles in Summer Seas 

long dead past was the howl of the wind and the 
roar of the surf on the bald beaches. People 
in the old days, he said, knew no occupation save 
piracy and wrecking. They took to the latter 
when the former was banned by law. In those 
days — this was before the lighthouse — distressed 
ships were made welcome and when one drifted 
in over the reefs, she was practically made a 
captive. The unfortunate skipper frequently 
lost ship and cargo in satisfying the demands of 
the wreckers. The bay at that point is called 
Church Bay, with the South West Breaker Bar 
opposing its barrier to the Atlantic roll. 

At the base of the tower, down which we had 
labored in the wake of the Brewer's wife, her bulk 
blocking the passage of the stairs, we gave Dan 
an order to drive to Church Bay. Job worked 
prodigiously along these roads in Southampton 
Parish. Ever and again he would stop to look 
back into the trap, mutely and reproachfully. 



Beautiful Bermuda 211 

He was a stubborn, though patient, animal and 
minded not the Oracle's use of the whip. To Dan, 
Job seemed a sore spot in the day's trip. He was 
forever adjuring him to mend his pace. We began 
to lose a good deal of confidence in Dan and I 
could see by the set look on the Artist's face that 
the Oracle's term of usefulness in our service was 
likely to be abridged. Out of compassion for Job 
we rested a while at St. Ann's Chiurch and here 
the Artist industriously plied Dan with questions 
relative to the history of the place. These efforts 
to probe were not very productive. Dan did tell 
the story of a long forgotten rector of St. Ann's, 
who, while preaching one stormy Simday, saw a 
man enter the chiu-ch and whisper in the ears of 
several members of the congregation. These, he 
noted, reached for their hats. Instantly siumis- 
ing that something was afoot, he asked directly: 
"Bill Jones, what's to do?" 
To this Jones is said to have replied: 



212 Isles in Summer Seas 

"There's a ship on the South West Breaker!" 
This was in the days of the wreckers and Jones' 

declaration upset Sabbath deconun. The rector 

held up his hand, saying: 

"All here will remain seated until I take off my 

surplice, and then, boys, we'll start fair!" 




CHAPTER XI 

I AN was longer in telling this 
story than I have been in 
setting it down. There were 
parts of it, too, that seemed 
funny to him, for he laughed in their recital in an 
absurdly constrained sort of way. When he had 
finished he looked about for those signs of ap- 
proval and appreciation a good story should com- 
mand. The Artist was gazing out into Church 
Bay at the long roll of the surf on the Breaker 
Bar, unsmiling and preoccupied. I was leaning 
with my back against the church wall watching 
the antics of the long tails down on the sandy 
beach at Great Whale Point. Dan hitched over 
a little nearer to the Artist. 



213 



214 



Isles in Summer Seas 



"Yes, sir, he didn't want none o' them men to 
get any start o' him!" 

"Is that the end of the story?" asked the 
Artist. 




The Oracle looked about him doubtfully, hes- 
itated and then said reluctantly: 

." Y-e-s, leastways I don't recollect my grand- 
dad tellin' any more to it. " 



Beautiful Bermuda 



215 



The Artist continued to seem much occupied 
with the landscape. 

It was some time after that when we moved 
back to Job, who by this time was wedged in a 




tangle of seaside vines and cactus. How he got 
into the cruel mess was a mystery to all of us, but 
a greater mystery lay in the fact that he was ex- 
tracted without loss of epidermis, nor did he flinch 
when the savage barbs entered his flesh, as many 
of them seemed to do. The Artist hastily 



2i6 Isles in Summer Seas 

sketched him in this sore predicament. The 
patience of this particular Job was sorely tested, 
but it was found wholly equal to the occasion. 
Dan was the chief sufferer, evidently; many a 
hollow 'Mudian oath finding audible expression 
in the course of the task of untangling Job. 

Following a careful examination of the dial of 
his watch, the Artist appeared a trifle impatient, 
and he remarked meaningly to Dan, when we 
were once more under way: 

"Don't stop anywhere this side of Somerset 
Bridge." 

Under Dan's manipulation of the whip Job 
trotted amiably down the military road until we 
came to the borders of Sandy's Parish — so named 
in honor of Sir Edwin Sands, one of the original 
Bermuda adventurers. We were moving through 
pleasant farm lands, planted with onions and 
potatoes, with now and then a glimpse of banana 
patches and the slender, stately paw-paw over 



Beautiful Bermuda 217 

the roadside walls. It wa a beautiful country 
and, but for our unseemly haste, we could have 
assimilated its restful charm with considerable 
pleasure. Along the way we passed a road lead- 
ing north to Bassett's Caves. Defying instruc- 
tions, Dan drew up. The signboard bore the 
legend of the locality in plain English. Dan was 
explaining the attractions of the Caves, when the 
Artist cut in sharply: 

"I told you Somerset Bridge!" 

There was no mistaking the note of impatience, 
so Dan made no further protest. A half mile far- 
ther along we drew up at Sandy's Narrows and 
the Bridge. To tell the truth the Bridge wasn't 
much to see, but it did have an unusual feature 
in the shape of a trap door. This, when raised, 
gives room for the masts of boats passing in from 
the Great Sound to Ely's Harbor. It was a long 
look to Hamilton from the bridge over across the 
Sound, dotted with islets and islands. The Art- 



2l8 



Isles in Summer Seas 



ist was busy with Dan, so I walked the length of 
the bridge and up Scaur Hill. At this point, look- 
ing south, I secured a fine view of Wreck Hill, over 
Ely's Harbor. My eyes followed the shore line, 




rugged and deeply indented, back to the bridge, 
and there I received a start that caused me to run 
down the hill to where I had left our outfit. In 
one hurried glance I had seen the figure of Dan on 



Beautiful Bermuda 2ig 

the trap headed east along the road we came. 
The Artist was standing on the bridge amid his 
sketching materials. 

"What's the matter?" I shouted. 

He grinned at me in fiendish glee. "Well, it's 
this way. That treasure you picked up under 
the rubber tree in the city yonder is an impostor, 
a fake. He is no guide and he has proved to me 
that he knows no more about this country than 
his mtde — which is precious little. So I told him 
to vamoose — to vanish; that we would find our 
way back from here by the ferry. Now, you are 
going to ask me what he said. Well, he said he 
would see us 'again in Hamilton and that if he 
could talk with you everything would be all 
right. Dan knows how easy you are, eh?" 

"It would seem so," I said. 

" Sure, he does — ^most any one can take you in! " 
was his comforting retort. 

This sudden severance from Dan and Job, to- 



220 



Isles in Summer Seas 



gether with the Artist's assured manner, ptizzled 
me a good deal; in fact, I had not straightened 
out the tangle when we climbed down a steep, 
boulder-strewn path and came suddenly plump 
upon the "Love Well" damsel and a dozen others 
of a tourist party at the Cathedral Rocks. Miss 




'^^^^E-^ 
i^?^ 



G- 



and the Artist shook hands for all the 
world like real old friends. They were certainly 
a couple of dissemblers, as I began to see. Baldy 
of the Ship and the lanky youth who took the 
love potion at Lunn's Well looked us over some- 
what contemptuously, I thought. There were 
several women in the party and the guide. The 
latter had an excessively tired and bored appear- 



Beautiful Bermuda 221 

ance. He was the same individual who had toured 
Walsingham and Tucker's Town. 

I soon lost interest in the Artist and his methods 
in a rapt contemplation of the wonders of Cathe- 
dral Rocks. The massive grandeur of this sea- 
hewn temple, its imposing arches and caverns, 
cast a spell over all of us, as we stood and looked 
and wondered. It is an achievement of many 
windy years and stupendous surges, and is, per- 
haps, the most remarkable example of erosion to 
be found anywhere. There was about it a maj- 
esty unapproached by the storm-washed rocks 
on the North coast. The Artist was busy with 

his sketch pad. Standing near, Miss G 

watched him pencil in the beautifiil cliff and occa- 
sionally offered suggestions. It appeared to please 
him, too, which to me seemed quite singular, in 
view of the fact that he had more than once ex- 
pressed a rooted dislike about having any one 
meddling with him while at work. On one occa- 



222 Isles in Summer Seas 

sion — that of my last offense, in particular — he 
had ordered me savagely to "cut it out". I was 

near enough to hear him tell Miss G about 

Dan. It pained me a little to note that he dragged 
me into the story, explaining that I had picked 
Dan and Job up in the streets of Hamilton. I was 
easily imposed upon, he assured her. As if to 
clinch his estimate of me he told of the silver cup 
and the pike head and the circumstance of their 
purchase. 

I moved away to the music of Miss G 's 

laughter, and barely caught the words: "How 
credulous!" uttered in slightly mocking tones of 
amusement by the "Love Well" damsel. 

Over against an arch of rocks stood the Guide, 
Baldy of the Ship, and the lanky youth whom his 
intimates addressed as Phil. They were in close 
consultation and, moreover, were looking side- 
wise at the Artist and his companion. The party 
broke up as I drew near. The Guide was the 



Beautiful Bermuda 223 



last speaker. He concluded his tirade in this 
wise: 

"I'll do what lean." 

Not being privy to what had gone before I 
could not tell to what he referred, but I surmised 
it had some connection with our intrusion. For 
an hotir or more these rocks held us captive. I 
assttmed from what I knew of the Artist that we 
would make an addition to the tourist crowd and 
in this I was correct. When the Guide ordered 
his party on, we joined it as the most natural 
thing in the world. At Wreck Hill we climbed the 
rise in straggling formation, the Artist surrender- 
ing his sketch pad to me so that he could be free 
of hand to assist his companion over difficult 
places. She appeared to require a vast deal of 
help. All these little attentions did not escape 
the notice of Phil and Baldy of the Ship. In the 
progress of otir jaimt they drew together fre- 
quently and spoke one to the other in low tones. 



224 Isles in Summer Seas 

I contrived to form a slight acquaintance with 
another member of the party — a lady from Mis- 
sotiri, who persisted in seeking light on many 
points of interest from the Guide. Wreck Hill 
gave us a bold view of the South West Breakers. 
Here we learned from the Guide that this por- 
tion of the sea coast has been the scene of many a 
disastrous wreck. The long shoals and coral reefs 
constitute the sea's burying ground for hundreds 
of ill-fated ships. Here, even on calm days, the 
surge thunders stupendously and ceaselessly, roar- 
ing inward over the beaches. 

The Guide led us back to Somerset Bridge and 
along a beautiful road to St. James' Church. 
This edifice, he told us, was built in 1789, on the 
site of a structure which had been practically 
wiped out by a storm. In those days, the roof 
was palmetto thatch and the walls rough hewn 
stone, insecurely placed. It has a remarkable 
curiosity in the shape of an organ which, the 



Beautiful Bermuda 225 

Gtiide said, was built according to plans furnished 
by a convict, a full hundred years before. This 

proved mighty interesting to Miss G and 

the Artist, but Baldy of the Ship and Phil were 
bored and indifferent. Presently they took coun- 
sel with the Guide and it was due solely to their 
persuasions that he ordered the whole party to 
Watford, Boaz and then to Ireland Island. Wat- 
ford is a military station of some importance. 
Boaz is also a military headquarters. Through 
its various buildings and grounds we moved in 
straggling array to the frequently unconcealed 
amusement of sentries and lounging "Tommies". 
Boaz, we were told, formerly was the convict 
headquarters, the scene of many an attempted 
escape. Our last call on Ireland Island was at 
the dockyard. The buildings here are more im- 
posing than in St. Georges, because they are con- 
structed of limestone. They looked solid and had 
an imposing air of warlike stability that was 



226 Isles in Summer Seas 

impressive. The whole atmosphere was British. 
In the care of a sentry we were shown the bell, in 
a niche of one of the buildings. This, our Guide 
asserted, once belonged to H. M. S. Shannon — a 
vessel that played a part in the war of 1812. In 
the Cambre we inspected the floating dock, but 
felt impelled to sit down suddenly when we were 
told it could lift 17,500 tons. 

Returning to Watford, where we were to take 
the ferry for Hamilton, the Guide led us around 
by way of Cross Island. He appeared to have 
something on his mind. Finally he asked me if 
we — the Artist and I — knew that his party was 
a private affair. I said I had no idea that it was, 
but that if he wished to be certain he should ask 
the Artist. My reply was decidedly unsatisfac- 
tory as I could see. Subsequently he went for- 
ward to join the conspirators — PhU and Baldy of 
the Ship — ^who had put him up to this assumption g| 
of authority. Half way over the island we gath- 



Beautiful Bermuda' 227 

ered about the Guide to hear his imperfectly 
remembered story connected with the legend of 
the hidden treasure buried there by shipwrecked 
Spaniards, before Bermuda was settled. We got 
from him again the same old story of a stone pile, 
a yellow wood tree and a brass plate. Cross Is- 
land owes its name to the fact that a wooden 
cross was set up there with one arm pointing 
toward Spanish Point on the Main, the other to 
the location of the obliterated stone heap. Sev- 
eral of our party at once began to dig for the 
treastire trove. Chief among these were Miss 

G and the Artist. I was forced again to 

admit, a little reluctantly perhaps, that his com- 
panion was pleasing to look upon. She had a style 
and grace that were extremely charming. Her 
hair had a way of blowing about her face in the 
wind that called for quick little attentions from 
her hands. This gave an unusual sprightliness 
and vivacity to her manner. Moreover, she 



228 Isles in Summer Seas 

would sit or stand looking over the Artist's shoul- 
ders at his sketches in a studious, critical way 
that gave one the impression he was the student 
and she the instructor. The girl was rarely ever 
still and on the Island ramble seemed to require 
a great deal of assistance, in climbing over the 
rough places. All the little attentions she com- 
manded were received as her due. For the rest 

it is hardly necessary to say Miss G was not 

a favorite with other members of her sex in the 
party. She didn't seem to mind that, how- 
ever. 

In our room that night there was enacted a 
scene not pictured in the sketch material supplied 
by the Artist. We stood face to face, not arguing 
a proposition, nor yet conversing with any imdue 
excitement. I was merely seeking a little light. 
In the progress of search I had occasion to refer, 
with brutal directness, to a matter appertaining 
to the state of his feelings in connection with a 



Beautiful Bermuda 229 

certain young lady mentioned frequently in the 
foregoing pages. He — a friend of long standing — 
owed me consideration; we were bound together 
by mutual interest on this trip. In the light of 
certain recent events I decided I had not been 
treated fairly. He had deliberately fostered the 
intrusion of a third party, to say nothing of others, 
and it was beginning to look as if the third party 
had secured a claim. I was led to this conclusion 
by the fact that at Watford, after Cross Island, 

he had been so attentive to Miss G he had 

hardly once looked my way. She was palpably 
his lodestar. Phil, the lanky youth, and Baldy 
of the Ship had been snubbed innumerable times 
by the engrossed pair, but I did not complain so 
much of this. But I did take umbrage at the fact 
that, when we docked at Hamilton after the ride 
across the Sound, he, the Artist, had ordered me 
to carry his sketch pad and other incidentals up 
to the hotel. This, in addition to the circum- 



230 Isles in Summer Seas 

stance that he didn't even take the trouble to see 
that I did it, was like a thorn in my flesh. 

I proceeded to heap maledictions on the people 
who had come upon the site of the "Love Well", 
or Limn's Well, as it is called, and upon the sUly 
legend about the efficacy of the water as a love 
potion. The stuff was working in his case, all 
right enough, or seemed to be. If not, what could 
possibly have caused him to forsake his interest 
in the trip, as he appeared to have done? It was 
this or some other contributory cause that had 
been the means of keeping him imtil far into the 
night. His entrance awoke me from a disturbed 
slumber and my grouch rapidly accumulated to 
his droning himi of the opening stanza of a long 
forgotten poem: 

"'I lov'd a lassie, a fair one, 
The fairest e'er was seen; 
She was, indeed, a rare one, 
Another Sheba Queen!" 



m 



Beautiful Bermuda 231 



It was then I arose and spoke my mind. 
"Are you quite through?" he asked. 
I said I was. There was no doubt of my real 
opinion now. 

"Good! then we will go to bed. In order that 
my affairs may not trouble you unnecessarily I 
will make this statement :— The matter of which 
you complain shall not interfere with our inter- 
ests in the ramble. There are certain features in 
this connection, however, that are my private con- 
cern. We are not going to discuss them now." 
That was all I could get out of him. 
"This is the place where the common scold and 
the witch were given a bath in the old days." 

It was the Artist who said this and he was ex- 
plaining a story connected with the spot known 
as the Ducking Stool. It was afternoon of the 
next day and our party, which now included Aliss 
G ; Phil, the lanky youth; Baldy of the Ship 
and the other people identified with the Cathedral 



232 Isles in Summer Seas 

Rocks expedition, had reached the Ducking 
Stool, following a trip out from Hamilton through 
what is known as the Fairyland district. We had 
inspected the gardens and estates by the way and 
the ladies of the party had raved ecstatically over 
the regal poincianas, with yellow and crimson 
flowers; the sago palms, screw pines, loquats and 
palmettos. The big geraniums, strong looking 
and tall, had excited much admiration. We had 
roamed, in straggling formation, to Mangrove 
Creek and had noted the manner in which this 
curiously formed swamp tree closed up the shel- 
tered inlet. Phil, the lanky youth, had climbed 
out on the strong shoots and had penetrated into 
the thicket for the special pleastire it seemed to 

afford Miss G . Further along we climbed 

Clarence Hill, the winter residence of the Admiral 
of the North Atlantic Station. It was only a 
short walk from there to Spanish Point. The 
whole party had speculated on the story of the 



i 



Beautiful Bermuda 



233 



buried treasure and the legend of the Cross, on 
Cross Island over by Boaz. It was toward this 
point that one ann of the cross was directed. 
Baldy of the Ship was willing to bet a good 
cigar that we were standing on the spot where the 




rjTtf^ 



Spanish pirates hid their hoards of tarnished 
spoil. There was a splendid view of the Great 
Sound from the eminence of the Point. Our 
next stop was the Ducking Stool. 

There wasn't much to see, that might suggest 
the uses of the contrivance designed for the pun- 



234 Isles in Summer Seas 

ishment of witches. A quiet pool enclosed by 
gaunt rocks and the quaint name attached to 
the place were all the visible signs at the spot. 
The young lady from Missouri was fain to be 
shown, but, as we were not equipped with the 
required outfit, she was obliged to be content 
with the story. It was a steep climb through a 
cut in the hill to Mount Langton, the residence 
of the Governor. We were unprovided with 
permits so had to take the beauties of the place 
somewhat for granted. The entrance to the 
grounds was a blaze of color, with the blossoms of 
the purple bougainvillea and hibiscus, inter- 
mingled with the scarlet stars of the poinsettia. 
There was a wild profusion of English heath 
and a wonderful vista of foliage in the region be- 
yond the gates. 

We came down by St. Johns, the parish church, 
a venerable relic of the days of 162 1. Like St. 
Peter's in the North, the graves, in the moulder- 



Beautiful Bermuda 



235 



ing chtirchyard, are scattered and in a good deal 
of disrepair. Old graves seemed to affect the 
Artist greatly, for I heard him recite two stanzas 




from Gray's Elegy for the edification of Miss 

G . 

The next pause was at Prospect Hill. From 
this vantage point we could see away off to the 
South Gibb's Hill Lighthouse, glimpsing many 
of the islands on the Great Sound. We returned 



236 Isles in Summer Seas 

through Happy Valley, the playground of the 
soldiers and thence by easy stages into Hamilton. 
Every member of the party was exceedingly 

weary. The Artist and Miss G were so tired, 

in fact, that they stopped to rest on a bench in 
that pretty flower garden called Victoria Park. 
Others of the crowd were scattered promiscuously 
dyer the close cropped lawns. 

In the town I met Dan and Job; the latter 
attached to a rickety cart laden with native stone. 

" You folks want me to take you in tow again? " 
asked Dan, clambering down from his perch on 
the cart. I pointed over in the direction of the 
Park. 

"The leader of our party is over there. No; 
I do not believe he needs you any more, Dan. 
He is in tow of someone else now or I am much 
mistaken." 

I patted Job, who looked around in sleepy 
surprise. 



Beautiful Bermuda 237 

"Are you folks stayin' long?" inquired Dan, 
laboriously mounting the cart again. 

I couldn't answer him definitely, and said so. 

It was the tenth day following our arrival in 
Hamilton and we had seen much of the Islands. 

The Artist had also seen much of Miss G , 

and the other tourists. We had been thrown 
with that party on half a dozen different ex- 
cursions to places of interest, as far north as the 
Devil's Hole and the Spanish Rock in Smith's 
Parish. At the latter place we had been in sight 
of the sand hills at Tucker's Town. On this oc- 
casion we had seen on Spanish Rock the nearly 
obliterated initials F. T. graven on the stones, 
with the cross and date, 1543. Our guide on that 
trip was an old inhabitant of the Parish and he 
said the cross on the rock was a warning against 
evil spirits; that even in these days few sea- 
farers care to pass the place at night alone. 
Buccaneers knew the Bermudas as the Isles of 



238 



Isles in Summer Seas 




the Devil. It is supposed they earned the title 
because of the many sea disasters that occurred 
in this region before the charts 
came into general use. 

We followed the trail of the 
tourists closely in these days. All 
through them I had noticed a dis- 
position on the part of the Artist 
to resume his sketching. He be- 
came extremely morose and un- 
communicative. I had noted, too, 
that Phil, the lanky youth, was more to 

the fore with Miss G and that on a niim- 

ber of occasions we had not been members 
of the crowd on little excursions in the 
neighborhood of Hamilton, 1 was not think- 
ing seriously of any of these things, however. 
It was on my mind that in two hours' time 
the big boat down at the dock on Front Street 
would steam out through the winding channel, in 



Beautiful Bermuda 239 

Grassy Bay, with the Artist and I as passengers, 
and then a long good-by for the sunny isles that 
had held us captive for so brief a space. We were 
sitting at a late breakfast and were strangely 
silent. I imagined my companion was thinking 
of much the same things that I have set down. 

"Here ends a real holiday!" I said regretfully. 

He looked over at me across the table . ' ' Your ob- 
servation is trite and commonplace; furthermore, 
it is not strictly true. Our holiday does not end 
until we land in New York." 

This nettled me, so I said: 

"Oh! I presume you expect to be well and have 
a good time aboard ship. No doubt a certain 
captivating lady is going back by the same 
boat." 

I seemed to have inadvertently touched a sore' 
spot. He looked at me queerly, his mouth set in 
grim, unsmiling lines. When he spoke it was like 
the breaking of icicles, so frigid was his tone. 



240 Isles in Summer Seas 

" One thing I want you to remember — it is this 
— I simply won't stand for any ill-advised refer- 
ences to what you are pleased to regard as an epi- 
sode. The captivating Miss your exaggerated 
sense of humor has conjured into heaven knows 
what is not going back on this ship, but we are. 
Now kindly drop the subject, if you please." 

I was certainly left in no doubt as to his state 
of mind on the matter. I was, however, left a vic- 
tim to all sorts of speculation as to the cause of 
his temper. Later we passed out into Queen 
Street, in the wake of a porter carrying our traps 
to the dock. 

"Look!" said the Artist. 

Toiling up the hill was a small horse attached 
to a low, flat, four-wheeled vehicle resembling in 
appearance a buckboard. It was not the convey- 
ance that caused the Artist to exclaim, but what 
it contained. Seated in the center, and crushing 
with his weight the springs supporting the low 



Beautiful Bermuda 



241 



body of the trap, was the biggest and fattest 
human being I ever saw outside a museum. He 
must have weighed four hundred pounds, if he 
tipped the scales at an ounce. The toiling beast 
in the shafts cotild scarcely keep the 
rig in motion. As we watched, the 
Artist laughed loudly and busied him- 
self with a rough sketch to fix the 
thing in his mind. He was hard at it 
when I saw something else come into 
the picture. This time it was a man 
and a girl. They stepped off the curb across 
the street, opposite the famous rubber tree, 
and walked over just behind the slow moving con- 
veyance. The pair were the "Love Well" dam- 
sel and Phil, the lanky youth. She was laughing 
perhaps at the thing that held our attention, and 
her mirth seemed as spontaneously free and gay 
as anything I have ever heard. The Artist 
wheeled suddenly at the sound, folded up 




242 Isles in Summer Seas 

his sketch hastily, turned to me and said 
sharply: 

"Come on!" 

This gave me more cause for speculation. By 
the time we boarded the ship I had arrived at the 
conclusion that the vaunted potency of the water 
in the famed Lunn's Well — "Love Well" we 
called it — had been seriously impaired by the long 
centuries that had elapsed since its discovery. 

That is to say, so far as it bore upon the destiny 
of the Artist. He braced up to the age-old 
challenge in the question put to verse by 
Withers: 

"Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair; 

Or make pale my cheeks with care 
'Cause another's rosy are? " 



The End. 



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